


The Color of Sky and Rain

by TigerMoon



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Epic Bromance, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Madness, Moral Ambiguity, Mutilation, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, blame it on Stein's ADD, delicious angst, soul dissonance, under the influence (of crazy)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerMoon/pseuds/TigerMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scream for me, Stein says, and even Spirit Albarn has to obey that command.</p><p>After Medusa's treaty with Shinigami, Spirit claims to have been badly injured by the Madness-crazed Stein. But what really happened that night? Why won't Spirit talk about it? And how will they fight Ashura if he can't resonate with the Grim Reaper?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Madness Caught Another Victim

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, and thank you for taking the time to read this little story of mine! It's been a while since I've written anything for fun, so please forgive me if my writing style comes off as a bit awkward. I'm working on it! After marathoning Soul Eater on Netflix and reading the manga in one go, I got bit by some rabid little plot bunnies that just didn't want to let go. I plan to update once a week as my work schedule permits, so, please, enjoy and let me know what you think!
> 
> Note: I do use 'sempai' in here when Stein refers to Spirit as a plot point, and I refer to the Reaper as Shinigami instead of Lord Death. (Shinigami is more personal, while Lord Death reminds me of a rapper or a knockoff Darth Vader.) Otherwise, I try not to abuse the Japanese language. ;)
> 
> And, of course, I don't own Soul Eater or the characters herein. I'm just borrowing them for a bit for nonprofit happy fun times. Bonus points if you can guess where I got the references for the chapter/fic titles!

“Hey, Maka. You've got a package.”

 

The young scythe Meister, curled up on the futon in the living room of their shared apartment, simply grunted and tucked her chin tighter into her knees. Soul rolled his crimson eyes and flicked a finger at the tag on the badly-wrapped gift. “I think it's from your creepy old man.”

 

That earned him an aggravated groan from the pigtailed girl. “Burn it.”

 

“Aw, c'mon, Maka. The old lady across the hall said he left it himself.” He hefted the package in his hand, shaking it. “I don't even think it's underwear this time. I think it's a book.”

 

“Don't care.”

 

When angry, Maka Albarn looked just like her father – though Soul would never tell her that. “He let Medusa go _free_ and now he's just trying to bribe me into not hating his guts for it. I hate him. I _hate_ him and I don't want anything he's got, so just toss it in the garbage or burn it or - just get rid of it, Soul.”

 

The Weapon shrugged and tossed the gift at the garbage can. “Whatever you say, Maka.”

 

*~*

 

The walls were dripping red

drip drip drip

and the eyes

_three eyes_

stared

_stared_

_STARED THROUGH HIM_

and the vipers at his feet hissed and he

laughed

so

**HARD**

because he was

 

_**M A D** _

__

_**M** _

_**A** _

_**D** _

 

_**M A D N E S S** _

 

and a soft voice

_purred_

in his ear

  
_breakbreak_ _**break** _ _them o p e n_  


soft skin

salty tears

crimson blood and golden hair

 

_**MARIE** _

 

_**MARIE** _

 

no

not Marie

_NOT MARIE_

 

and the vipers begin to close their fangs around his neck

**bloodlust**

**blood**

_it burns_

and the

red

_red_

**_red like blood_ **

he laughs

and though he can't weep

_**he tries** _

 

*~*

The moon had yet to reach its apex in the night sky when Spirit Albarn began trudging up the empty road towards his home. It was unusual for him to return home this early at night – he didn't make a habit of going home sober, much less before midnight, and tonight he was doing both. Not even the allure of ChupaCabra could touch him tonight. Not after what he'd been party to.

 

“If I hadn't fucked up -”

 

Biting his lower lip, DeathScythe began rummaging in the pockets of his dress slacks for his house keys. The nagging feeling that all of this was somehow his fault – from Medusa's first escape to the rebirth of Ashura to Stein's burgeoning madness to this stupid, _stupid_ deal with the snake witch . . . . Azusa had quite loudly placed the blame in his lap. So had Maka, once she'd seen him escorting Medusa off the Academy grounds. And while the rest had been quiet, he didn't need their recriminations. His reputation (not undeserved, he had to admit) preceded him.

 

The redhead paused outside the gate to the modest house, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. If he'd stayed by Shinigami's side at the DWMA anniversary party, they could have beaten Ashura. If he'd tried harder in the catacombs to rein in Stein's madness, they could have beaten Medusa.

 

If he'd been a better husband, Kami wouldn't have left him. If he'd been a better parent, Maka wouldn't hate him.

 

Goddammit, this was why he preferred not to go home _sober_.

 

“Pull it together, idiot,” Spirit grumbled under his breath. “Get inside, get a drink, and then . . . .”

 

He trailed off as he looked up. His front door was open, cracked just enough to let a sliver of moonlight into the room beyond. The hackles on the back of his neck rose; for all his apparent carelessness, he never left his _sanctum sanctorum_ unlocked. All he had left was in there, the best memories of his failed life.

 

And someone had broken in.

 

A more cautious and less well-armed man might have gone for backup or the police. Spirit was armed to the teeth – literally, as a living Weapon and the preferred DeathScythe of the Grim Reaper himself. Only an idiot or a madman would even consider challenging him, even if he didn't have a Meister there. So without preamble, he raised one foot and kicked open the door, twin scythes brandishing themselves from his forearms. “Alright, who the _hell_ do you think you- _Stein_? Did you just break into my _house_?”

 

The mad scientist looked up from his seat on the couch, blowing out a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. “Good evening, sempai,” he said.

 

Spirit groaned and let the blades go back to where they came from. “For – can't you do _anything_ like a normal person for once?” he groused, pulling off his jacket and throwing it over a nearby chair. A hand reached out and flicked on a nearby lamp. Light suffused the area in a soft glow. “I swear you're a bigger pain in my ass now than you were when we were kids.” Padding over towards him, he stopped mere inches away to face the taller man, arms folded across his chest and head tilted back. “What do you want, anyway?”

 

Stein dropped the cigarette from his lips, grinding the burning tip out against his bare palm. “We need to talk.”

 

The door swung shut behind them.

 

*~*

 

Far away, the serpent smiles.

 

*~*

 

“So no one's found him yet?”

 

Marie stood against the wall outside of Class Crescent Moon, eyes trained on her rapidly twiddling thumbs and not on Azusa. “No. Shinigami-sama has Sid and Nygus looking but no one's found him yet. He just . . . vanished. I wasn't gone that long! Just to get something for dinner!” Desperation made her voice crack. “I didn't think anything would happen!”

 

Azusa adjusted her glasses. While her friend had every reason to be maudlin about the turn of events, she tended to the melodramatic. “He'll show up soon. I just hope it's before he dissects a student or something.” She looked over her shoulder down the hallway and wrinkled her nose. “Is that Spirit staggering around down there? I hope he's not drunk or something.”

 

“Hm?” Marie glanced up. “It is. He should have been in two hours ago, though. Shinigami-sama said he couldn't get a hold of him to help with the search. Something about no signal.”

 

Azusa scoffed. “He probably hung a towel over his mirror so he could sleep off the hangover.”

 

“Mm.” The blond squinted her one good eye. “He looks like he got dressed in the dark.”

 

Spirit normally took pride in his appearance, but this morning he was dressed in rumpled, heavily wrinkled clothing and a tattered dress jacket. Half the buttons on his shirt were buttoned in the wrong buttonholes, and he'd foregone his cross-shaped necktie and cufflinks. His crimson hair was matted and tangled about his face, hiding his eyes. The deathscythe hadn't even bothered to shave. His left arm hung uselessly at his side. “Where's Maka?” he demanded, his voice rough and hoarse.

 

“Spirit, you're drunk.” Azusa poked him in the shoulder. “Do you even know what kind of chaos-”

 

Spirit glared at Azusa with eyes wild and feral before lunging for the classroom door. “Get out of my way,” he snarled. “Maka? _Maka?!_ Are you all right? _**Maka?!**_ ”

 

The entire classroom ground to a halt, teens craning their heads around to stare at the rumpled deathscythe now staggering down the stairs. “Maka?” Tsubaki pointed out gently, looking concerned. “You might want to hide.”

 

Soul chimed in with, “Tsubaki's right. Maybe you should run.”

 

“Yeah, your old man's off his rocker,” laughed Black*Star. “You'll never live this down.”

 

Maka shot her friends venomous glares before turning around. “Go away, Papa! I don't want you here!”

 

“Hush,” Spirit scolded. Maka's eyes went wide, and he easily shoved through the students in the row to reach her. One hand grasped her by the shoulders. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you? Maka, did Stein _hurt_ you?!” He shook her once; Soul and the others rose up behind her, ready to intervene. Marie and Azusa stood being Spirit, Marie with hammer arm raised. “ _Tell me!_ ”

 

“N-No! I haven't even seen- he's not even come in for class!” Maka pushed at her father, trying to shove him away. “Papa, I'm OK! I promise! You're scaring me!”

 

The words seemed to take all the fight out of him. Spirit sagged to his knees, hugging his daughter with one trembling arm. “He said- I thought- I was so afraid he'd go back on his word . . . .”

 

Maka laid a gloved hand on her father's back. The others relaxed somewhat, now staring and whispering amongst themselves. “Papa, what are you talking about?” she began, then drew her hand back. The black of his jacket was darker in blotches up and down his back; her glove had come back stained red from touching him. “Oh gosh, you're hurt!”

 

In the light, now that the panic was gone, it was easier to see- fragments of glass scattered in his hair, bruises along his jaw and ligature marks on his neck, the hand-shaped bruises around his wrists. The blood beginning to soak his wrinkled dress shirt – Marie came down to his side and Soul managed to gently pull Maka away from her father. “Spirit? Spirit, what happened?”

 

“S- I tried to stop- Marie, Stein's gone,” he managed, his hand falling to his side. “I tried. I did. I'm so sorry.” He took in a shaky breath. “I have to report to . . . to Shinigami.”

 

“He knows about Stein. You need medical help first. Azusa, get Nygus-”

 

“No.” DeathScythe pushed himself to his feet, wincing in pain. “Report first. I should have reported before now.”

 

Azusa sighed and pushed her glasses back up on her nose. “Go on. I'll take care of this class. Get him to the Death Room. I'll send Nygus up to meet you there.”

 

Marie grasped her colleague by the arm to help him up; he jerked out of her grasp with a start, then pushed himself up. Giving his daughter one last long glance, Spirit strode unsteadily out of the classroom, Marie hot on his heels. “Yo, Maka,” Soul asked after a moment. “You gonna be OK?”

 

Maka sat back down hard; Tsubaki put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She stared at the blood on her glove, rubbing the sticky redness between her fingers and trying to ignore how cold it felt on her skin. “. . . yeah,” she lied. “I'll be just fine.”

 

*~*

 

The Grim Reaper was normally effusive and full of boundless cheer; even the battered state of his top deathscythe couldn't completely tamp down his goodnatured humor, though it did seem to lessen it some. “So Stein's gone, huh?” he asked, watching Nygus rummage around in her medical bag and pull out a pack of butterfly closures.

 

Spirit simply nodded. Sitting on a stool in the Death Room, the Weapon looked distinctly uncomfortable with all the attention being paid to him. Marie was hanging back a bit, eyes downcast; Nygus tried to grasp Spirit's chin and scowled under her wrappings when he dodged. “Spirit, be still,” she chided, closing up a gash on his forehead.

 

“That's not good,” Shinigami continued. He placed one cartoonishly large hand up to his mask in thought. “We need all the help we can get in this fight. Do you think there's any chance he'll return?”

 

“No.” Spirit hissed in pain as his jacket was peeled off; the shirt underneath was soaked crimson. Nygus muttered an apology and snatched up some scissors to cut the fabric off instead of making him wrestle it off and hurt himself further. “The Madness has him. I don't think he could deal with-” He stopped, lips pressed together in a thin line.

 

Marie stepped forward. “With . . . ?”

 

“With . . . disappointing everyone,” he finished clumsily. Shinigami tilted his head a bit but said nothing. “That's all. You know how he hates to let people down.”

 

Nygus huffed. “Spirit, that's a load of bull. Stein doesn't . . . care . . . .” Marie let out a stifled cry of dismay; the medic gently touched the open wounds with one hand-

 

_He instinctively knows the sharp, tugging pain is a scalpel the moment it buries itself into his shoulder. “Thought you- you weren't going to- dissect-”_

 

“ _I'm not.”_  


 

  
_The blade twists, turns, drags through skin and muscle down to bone in jagged swoops and slashing lines – Stein is carving letters, a_ word _into his flesh. Branding him. Spirit writhes, biting his lower lip until the teeth sink through with a click and hot blood runs down his chin. He writhes but he_ won't _scream because that is what the younger man_ wants _and like_ hell _will he give in so easily._  


 

_After an eternity of agonizing scraping – the scalpel dulls halfway through, and that pain is far worse than the cleaner, sharp lines of those first fresh cuts – Stein sits back atop his victim's thighs and taps the scalpel atop the very small of Spirit's back. Blood is soaking his shirt and dripping onto the hardwood floor under him. Stein rakes his fingers over the fresh cuts and Spirit can't help but give a muffled cry._

 

“Scream _for me-”_  


 

“-Spirit? Spirit, are you all right?”

 

The stool was knocked over, Nygus and Marie behind it with eyes wide open in shock; Spirit was holding one arm up, scythe blade pointed straight at them. A sluggish trail of blood crept down Nygus's palm where he had cut her in his panic; bile rose in the redhead's throat. “. . .I,” he began. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.”

 

Someone cleared his throat beside him. His Meister was crouched near him, hands up in a non-threatening gesture. “Spirit,” Shinigami said gently, “we know. It's all right. Just let Nygus finish her work.”

 

Shamefaced, the deathscythe sat back down with a muttered apology and crossed his arms over his knees. With the shirt off, the damage was apparent. The bruises and dislocated shoulder weren't so shocking now; neither was the sunken bit that could only have been broken ribs.

 

Not when Stein had literally carved the word “FEAR” into his former partner's back.

 

“Oh, Spirit,” Marie whispered.

 

Spirit scowled and ducked his head down so that his hair covered his eyes. “Don't pity me, Marie,” he snapped. His voice was trembling now, self-loathing evident in every word. “It was my own damn fault. I should have been strong enough to knock some sense into him.”

 

Nygus began wiping out the wounds. “Boys and their bravado,” she sighed. “Stein's the best Meister the DWMA's ever had. Even a deathscythe has to have trouble with that. I suppose we should be thankful this is the worst that happened.”

 

Spirit cringed.

 

Shinigami hadn't moved from his spot on the floor. He looked back up at his Weapon, a blank expression on his mask. “Where did you say you'd fought Stein again, Spirit?”

 

“. . . an alleyway.”

 

“Which alley would that be?”

 

There was silence for a moment. “I don't remember,” he finally said. “Sorry.”

 

Marie straightened herself up. “Are you sure he's left the city? Completely sure?”

 

“ _Yes!_ Marie, he's dangerous right now! Leave it be!”

 

The blonde deathscythe bit her lower lip. “Maybe I don't want to give up on him as easily as you!” She spun on her heel and began to march out of the room. “And maybe I won't be _drunk_ when I face him!”

 

“Marie, that's not fair!” Nygus started, but Spirit shook his head.

 

“Doesn't matter. She's upset. Can we get this over with?”

 

Stitching up the cuts in Spirit's back was a slow, painful process. The only sounds were of his labored breathing and occasional hisses of pain, punctuated by the snip of scissors on thread or the rare curse by Spirit. Once the stitches were in, she set about taping up his ribs – a process made more difficult by the fact that the deathscythe flinched every time he was touched.

 

“Does it hurt that badly, Spirit?” she asked at one point, smoothing down the tape around his torso.

 

Spirit shook his head, grunting a 'no' from between clenched teeth. His hands trembled and he clenched them into fists. “Just hurry up.”

 

Shinigami didn't speak at all, but watched every move his Weapon made – every flinch, every tremor in his hands, how he tried to curl into himself when Nygus came too close. After an eternity, Nygus began winding gauze around his torso. “There. Just need to set your shoulder and you'll be done. I know there's a lot going on, but you're going to need your rest for at least a week after this.”

 

“Wait, Nygus.” Shinigami was back on his feet – or at least standing up – and was staring intently down at Spirit. “I'll take care of him from here.”

 

She blinked. “No offense, but . . . you know how to reduce a dislocated shoulder?”

 

“We didn't have nurses with us in the olden days,” he said. Spirit looked back up at him from under shaggy bangs, his gaze unreadable. “I still know a thing or two. We'll call if we need anything.”

 

Unspoken was the request for privacy for what was coming next. Nygus was smart; she left behind a sling and extra supplies for Spirit to take home and took her leave as quickly as she could. Once they were alone, Shinigami turned and grasped the deathscythe's injured hand in one of his huge gloved ones.

 

Spirit flinched and tried to pull away.

 

“So now that we're alone . . . .” Grasping his hand tighter, the Reaper placed a hand on Spirit's shoulder and began to tug on his arm, gently rotating the joint. “Where were you really when Stein attacked you?”

 

Unable to move, Spirit grit his teeth and turned his head away. “Told you,” he ground out. “Alleyway.”

 

His Meister rotated the arm out, flexing it – then pulled, hard. A crunching pop echoed through the room; Spirit screamed. “There. Better.” DeathScythe panted, clutching the arm to him. “And I'd appreciate it if you'd stop lying to me.”

 

Spirit was silent. Waiting until the Reaper let go of him, he awkwardly slipped the sling over his neck and tucked his wounded arm into it. “What makes you think I'm lying?”

 

“What else happened last night, Spirit?”

 

“. . . what do _you_ think happened?”

 

Shinigami didn't say anything. Soul Perception told him a far different story than what Spirit would have him believe. Spirit's soul was normally swelled large and effusive, bounding with love for his daughter and his friends, suffused with loyalty and an easygoing determination that only showed when his back was in a corner. Now, though, it shrank in on itself, claw marks denting the sides; it trembled like a mouse caught under the predatory gaze of a hawk. Oversized hands clasped together, he gently extended his Soul Wavelength, matching his partner's skittish one, and nudged at him wavelength-to-wavelength.

 

The effect was instantaneous. With a frightened cry, Spirit fell off the stool; his free hand came up in front of him, blade extended. “Don't _touch_ me!” he snapped.

 

“Spirit, what else happened last night?” Shinigami pleaded, his hands held up in surrender.

 

Spirit swallowed hard and retracted the blade. Hi eyes narrowed in fury. “That was a dirty trick,” he spat.

 

“Spirit-”

 

“I ran into Stein in an alleyway. He kicked my ass. Then he ran away. Is that not _enough_?”

 

Shinigami sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose that's enough.”

 

 


	2. A Slow Disaster

_The door swings shut behind them._

 

“ _Talk?” Spirit blinks, then shrugs, grinning. “What do you want to talk about?” He is confused, but willing to play along; this isn't the first time Stein has come to him with strange requests._  


 

“ _How about days gone by?” Stein answered. “I helped you with your homework, you helped me with my anatomy studies. We had such a good relationship.”_  


 

_Spirit snorts in amusement. “Dissecting me doesn't count as anatomy studies, Stein.”_

 

  
_He gives an almost drunken titter at this, his smile predatory in the dim light. “I admit, I'd hoped you'd be asleep when I came here. You were always such a sound sleeper. I could do_ anything _to you and you'd never even know~”_  


 

_Any half-hearted amusement or camaraderie the deathscythe might have been feeling before vanishes. “You need to be back at the lab with Marie, Stein,” he snaps. “I can practically feel the Madness coming off of you. You're stronger than this. Pull yourself together and-”_

 

_Stein slams a crackling Soul Force directly into his former partner's stomach._

 

_Spirit staggers for mere seconds, but it is the advantage Stein needs; a wild haymaker catches the redhead on the jaw before another Soul Force hits the Weapon in the chest. DeathScythe goes flying across the room, crashing through a glass coffee table and into the wall. The brick and mortar of the house crunches under the impact. “D- dammit, Stein,” Spirit coughs, pulling himself up onto his forearms. Blood trickles from his mouth; slate-blue eyes flash in fury. “Don't make hurt you!”_

 

  
_The mad scientist's head lolls back on his shoulders. “Hurt me?” he giggles, the words soon evolving into full-blown laughter. His arms clutch his sides as he roars in amusement. “_ You _? You couldn't even keep my Madness away for_ one battle _, sempai!”_  


 

  
_A scythe slashes just below his chin, drawing blood; another feints at his stomach before opening a gash along his bicep. “I know. I_ know _, and I'm_ sorry _, but that's no_ excuse _for this!”_  


 

_Spirit jabs downward just as Stein readies another Soul Force. Instead of dodging, the madman grasps him by the blade and forces his Madness-skewed Soul Wavelength onto his former partner. The sudden jolt elicits a cry and burst of blood as the incompatible wavelengths wrack Spirit's core; as soon as the scythes disappear Stein aims a double-palmed, twin lance Soul Force into his ribs. This time Spirit buckles in two, coughing up crimson on the other's shoes._

 

“ _You were my greatest experiment,” the scientist observes flatly, kicking his former partner in the ribs. Any breath left in Spirit's lungs is forced out; the kick repeats with exacting precision again, and again, and again, and_ again _, rapid-fire until there is a muffled wet_ crack _that forces a breathless scream out of the man at his feet. “You've gotten weaker in your old age, sempai. You should have lasted at least 2.7 more seconds. But it was an informative experiment.”_  


 

  
_Shallow, haggard breathing is his only response – and then DeathScythe flips over back onto his feet. Blood begins to stain the side of his green dress shirt black. “Snap out of it, idiot,” he growls. “I'm_ not _afraid of you anymore, and I_ don't _belong to you, so you can stop with the stupid_ experiment _talk!”_  


 

  
_Stein's head tilts to one side. He snickers. “You have always tried to run from uncomfortable truths, sempai,” he states, and the calm in his voice is more frightening than the laughter. “You were my experiment then.” He blinks slowly, uneven pupils focusing on the figure in front of him – and then he is behind his partner, open palm against his broken ribs. “You still are now._ Soul Force. _”_  


 

_*~*_

 

“ _No!”_

 

Faded denim eyes snapped open; the bedroom was dark, the only light source coming from the madly grinning moon rising to the east. Spirit closed his eyes again. His fingers were dug whiteknuckled into the sheets; it took conscious effort to relax them enough to let go. After a few moments he opened his eyes again.

 

Still dark. Still shadowed.

 

Still alone.

 

“. . . fuck.”

 

Gingerly raising himself up, he reached out for the glass of water by his bedside and drained it in one go. After a few moments his eyes adjusted to the dark. Spirit slid out from between the sheets and staggered toward the kitchen, pausing when he hit the living room.

 

The low glass-top table he'd inherited from his mother now lay shattered across the floor. Family photos were knocked off the walls. Wooden cabinets splintered, walls dented, even a crater in the wooden floor. And over in the corner . . . .

 

“ _Pull yourself together, Stein! What would Marie think?”_  


 

  
_The reaction is swift. The crazed Soul Wavelength shoves itself into him again, jagged spiritual fingers clawing at every interior inch of his body and ripping down to his soul. Stars bloom behind his eyes. He screams, he_ knows _he screams, but he can't hear it over the sound of his soul being rendered. Above it all is laughter, insane laughter, and then a blow to the head that sends him flying._  


 

_Spirit hits the floor; this time he doesn't move._

 

_Giggling to himself, Stein walks over to where Spirit lies crumpled and kneels over him. “So you really don't fear me anymore, sem~pai~?”_

 

_Spirit cracks one eye open and spits a mouthful of blood in Stein's face._

 

  
_Stein digs his fingers into Spirit's broken ribs and squeezes until the other cries out. “I had planned to just dissect you, sempai. See what had changed from then to now. But_ they _have a better idea.”_  


 

  
_It takes several seconds for the other man to gather the breath to speak. “They? Who- who's_ they _?”_  


 

  
_Stein flips him over onto his stomach and sits back on Spirit's legs, knowing full well the deathscythe is too weak to materialize a blade in his state. “You forgot how to_ fear _me, sem~ pai~ Now I have to remind you all over again.”_  


 

Fear.

 

_Fear._

 

The word was etched upon him now, engraved into his skin, his memory, his very _soul_ , and he could not escape it.

 

Spirit turned tail and fled, running somewhere, anywhere – he found himself curled up on the cold tile floor of the bathroom tucked between the bathtub and the toilet. Shivering, hugging his knees to his chest, the deathscythe leaned his aching back against the chill of the wall. “'m being stupid,” he told himself. The sound echoed, lonely in the empty house, and he began to tremble.

 

“Idiot,” he whispered, closing his eyes against the threat of tears.

 

*~*

 

“Hey, did you hear about Maka's dad?”

 

“I heard he got caught cheating with someone's wife and the husband beat him up!”

 

“I heard he was cheating with Ms. Marie and _Stein_ beat him up!”

 

“Think that's why the professor left?”

 

“Such a weirdo. Bet Shinigami wouldn't keep him around if he wasn't a scythe.”

 

Maka tightened her grip on her books and tried to tune out the gossip as she walked through the hallways of the DWMA. Soul settled for ambling beside her and occasionally shooting people dirty looks if they stared at them. “Hey, Maka. Don't let it get to you.”

 

She huffed and drew herself up tall. “Who's letting it get to them? Not me! I'm fine!”

 

“Good,” said a voice behind them. “It's all rumor-mongering.” Maka and Soul turned to see Death the Kid standing behind them, flanked by his Weapons Patty and Liz. Liz flashed a grin at them; Patty was, as usual, oblivious.

 

“Should have figured you'd have the hookup, Kid,” Soul said with a sharktooth grin. “So what's the real story?”

 

Kid looked between them. “I asked my father for an explanation, and for once he actually gave me some information. It seems as though your father ran into Professor Stein as he was trying to escape Death City and tried to stop him.” His piercing gaze fixed upon Maka, who squirmed. “How much do you know about it?”

 

Maka looked down at her gloved hands, at the faint bloodstain that still remained there. “. . . I know Papa was hurt pretty badly, but he's tough. He'll be okay.” Her voice wavered a bit, unsure.

 

Liz raised an eyebrow. “You haven't even checked in on him?”

 

“Well, I saw him before he went home, and he said he was fine. I mean, he used to tell me stories about how he and Professor Stein fought when they were partners. . . I just-”

 

“Three broken ribs. Concussion. Dislocated left shoulder.” Maka's eyes grew wide in shock as Kid continued ticking the issues off on his fingers. “Soft tissue damage to the wrists, throat, and abdominal cavity. One-hundred fifteen stitches. That's not counting the minor injuries.”

 

Maka went pale; Soul grasped her by the shoulders to keep her steady. “Shit, Kid, did you have to dump it all on her like _that_?” he snapped. “Ever hear of breaking the news gently?”

 

“Better she hear the truth from one of us than get piecemeal information from the rumor mill,” Liz interjected.

 

Kid, meanwhile, was trying to arrange the injury count on his fingers to make them symmetrical. “. . . and if I count the minor injuries as one lump sum, I have six – three on each side – symmetry! Perfect- ah, er, right.” The glare the others were giving him could have crumbled stone. “I'm sorry, Maka. I truly didn't mean to upset you.” He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Look. Wounded or not, he's the strongest of the deathscythes, and the Weapon my father will use if he faces Ashura again. It's none of my business, but aren't you even a little worried?”

 

For a moment Maka's lower lip quivered; then she whirled around with her head held aloft, away from the rest. “Nope,” she said as the bell rang. “He can get one of his 'ladies of the night' to help him out if he's that bad off.”

 

With that, she scampered into the classroom; Liz and Patty followed after her, leaving Kid and Soul alone in the hallway. “Why do you care, anyway, Kid?” Soul asked.

 

“I've known Spirit since I was little. He's been my father's primary Weapon for as long as I can remember.” The young shinigami shrugged. “I suppose I just don't understand how she can be so cavalier about it. I can't, and he's just a family friend.”

 

Soul heaved a sigh. “Oh, she cares. Trust me. In her own special Maka way, she cares.” He grinned suddenly. “Let's just hope she never cares about _us_ like that.”

 

*~*

 

“Heya, heya, how're ya feeling, Spirit?”

 

Feeling immensely awkward in a pair of jogging pants and a track jacket, Spirit scuffed one trainer against the floor of the Death Room and gave Shinigami a flat look. “Like I just had the crap beat out of me.”

 

If the Reaper could blink through the mask, he would have. “Ah. Right. To be expected, of course.”

 

Spirit just sighed. “Was there something you needed, Shinigami-sama? I'm supposed to be resting.”

 

“And you're clearly not doing it, if those circles under your eyes are any indication. Have you tried my sleepybye tea? I used to give it to Kid when he was little! Put him right out!” Shinigami bounced on point like a bobblehead, cheerfully oblivious to the glare his Weapon was now giving him. “Of course, I'm not sure if all the ingredients are suited for humans or not. . . .”

 

“. . . tell me again why I shouldn't just turn around, go home, and go back to bed _right now_?”

 

Shinigami sighed. “You're no fun.” He held out one oversized hand. “Transform.”

 

Spirit took a step backward. Sudden dread swelled up within him. “What?”

 

“Transform into your scythe form, please.”

 

The deathscythe stared at the outstretched hand and swallowed hard. “I thought I was supposed to be resting.”

 

“Oh, come off it. We both know you could do this in your sleep.” The Reaper beckoned to him. “We have no idea when Ashura will attack, and I need to know if you are in any shape to fight or not. I don't want to try resonating with you, or sending you out with another Meister, if you're too badly injured for it.”

 

It wasn't an unreasonable request. Still, he hesitated. Letting his Meister wield him meant synchronizing soul wavelengths . . . which meant he would become an open book, with nothing hidden. “What did Nygus say about this?”

 

Shinigami tilted his head curiously. “I didn't ask her. I shouldn't have to. You've fought in far worse shape than this before, after all. I promise to take it easy, if that's what's bothering you.”

 

He was out of excuses. After a second Spirit sighed and transformed into his scythe form-

 

-only to transform right back the second he felt those hands about to grasp him. He jerked his arm out of Shinigami's reach, nervous sweat beading on his forehead.

 

“Spirit?” The Reaper didn't sound angry, or disappointed, just puzzled.

 

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to-”

 

“Let's try that again.”

 

And again Spirit changed, body warping into a tall, cross-shaped scythe, only to flash out of that form the moment he thought he was about to be touched. “Sorry,” he gasped again, wincing as the movement pulled on his broken ribs.

 

“Again.”

 

“But-”

 

“ _Again_ , Spirit.”

 

The order was given so sternly that he obeyed without thinking. Gritting his teeth, he transformed again, expecting to be grasped by the Reaper's right hand- and so wasn't expecting it when the left closed around his hilt instead.

 

A flash of heat-

 

– _the scent of stale tobacco and rotting lotus seeds, of drying blood and –_  


 

-and Shinigami dropped Spirit, charred marks on his huge gloved hand. Spirit transformed a split second later, staring wide-eyed at his Meister.

 

He'd done that. Soul wavelengths so far out of sync that they _burned_ – even Shinigami, the ultimate Meister, couldn't touch him now.

 

Because of fear.

 

“Maybe that's enough for today,” Shinigami said, lowering his hands to his sides.

 

Spirit bolted out of the room.

 

*~*

 

“Shinigami-sama? It's Sid. I have the information you wanted.”

 

The masked face of the Reaper filled the mirror's face. “Great! Lay it on me.”

 

Sid shooed a mouse out of the way, sitting on top of a crate next to a beat-up old radio. “It's as you thought. DeathScythe wasn't anywhere near ChupaCabra the night Stein attacked him. The only places I can really trace him to is an old bookstore – looks like he bought Maka a present there – and to Maka's apartment building. After that, it looks like he went towards his house, no other stops.”

 

“About what time did he go home, do you think?”

 

The zombie flipped through his notepad. “Best guess is between eight and ten. Which is around the time Marie reported Stein missing.”

 

“Hmm.” Shinigami tapped a finger against his mask. “Anything else?”

 

“There is one other thing. There was a sighting of Stein leaving DeathScythe's neighborhood at about three in the morning.”

 

“. . . I see. Thank you, Sid. This has been helpful.” The mirror flickered. “Come back to the academy when you're done. I have another call I have to take. See ya!”

 

The mirror went dark; Sid hopped down and strode off, tucking the mirror into a pocket of his cargo pants.

 

The mouse he had pushed off the cargo box chittered at the radio; it crackled with laughter. “Poor little DeathScythe,” the voice on the radio crooned. “All alone with nowhere to turn. Isn't that _funny_ , lover?”

 

A few seconds of laughter, and the broadcast shut off.

 

*~*

 

The dispensary was normally quiet; there were only two people inhabiting it when Maka crept around the corner. Nygus was unrolling gauze; sitting on the bed across from her was her father, shirtless and with his back to Maka, slowly unwrapping now-bloodstained gauze. “Shinigami said you needed something for sleep?” Nygus asked, dabbing at the man's face.

 

“ . . . no. It's OK.” He tugged at the gauze; the swathes of red-splotched white came tumbling down, exposing ugly lines and curves gouged into his back. The word 'FEAR', outlined in black stitches and crusted blood – Maka let out a cry of horror.

 

Spirit whirled around; all he caught was a glimpse of blonde pigtails and a jacket flying out of the room. “Maka!” he half-shouted, standing and rounding the bedside. “Maka, _wait!_ ”

 

Maka kept running, shoving her way through the crowds until her heavy footsteps and gasping sobs were the only sounds she could hear. The dungeons under the Academy – without knowing it, she had run away to Crona's cell. She fell hard against the metal door, struggling to get her breath. “Oh, Papa,” she whimpered miserably.

 

“Maka? I- is that you?”

 

She raised her head at the timid voice. “Crona . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you. I'm just being a big baby.”

 

“Umm.” There was a scratching noise, the schooch of boots and fabric across the floor, and then a gentle tap of a hand on the door. Crona's gentle voice came through at her level. “It- I- I mean, if you wanted . . . Maka's always been so nice to me, and – I don't know how to deal with babies, but I can – I can try? If it would help?”

 

Despite herself, Maka giggled through her tears. “That's sweet of you, Crona. But that's not exactly what I meant.”

 

“Oh.” More shuffling. “Then – what did you mean?”

 

“. . . Professor Stein attacked my papa the night before last.” There was a little gasp of horror from the other side of the door. “He's hurt pretty badly and . . . I don't get along with him at all. He hurt Mama and me so much with all his cheating and he says he's sorry but I don't know if I can believe him and because of him Mama moved away and left me here and-” She sniffed, wiping away tears with the back of her sleeve. “And I don't know how to feel about him anymore but I saw where the professor cut him and it makes me hurt inside and I don't understand it!”

 

Crona was quiet for several long moments before replying. “Did you- did you have any good times together?”

 

She sighed. “Yeah. A lot of them. We still kinda do. Even if he's a lousy father, I know he'll always be there for me. I guess that counts for something.”

 

“Medusa was never nice to me like your dad is to you.” Crona's voice grew quieter. “I don't think we ever had any good times together. And she's only there for me if there's something in it for her. So I- I don't think I can really relate.”

 

Maka sniffed back tears – this time for her friend. “Oh, Crona. You'll get out. I promise. And then we'll go out, you me and Papa. He kinda likes you, y'know? At least, you're one of the few friends I have he hasn't ranted about.”

 

“R-really?” Crona sounded baffled. “Why?”

 

“Papa . . . kinda likes playing papa to everyone when he can. I think it's why he was partnered with Professor Stein.”

 

“Huh.” The other child's voice was filled with wonder. “. . . can Professor Stein come too? And Ms. Marie?”

 

Maka closed her eyes, giving up her fight against the tears. “Sure, Crona. You and me and Ms. Marie and Papa and Professor Stein. One day we'll all go out together and make some good memories.”

 

*~*

 

Spirit stared out again over the shattered remains of his living room, a blanket wrapped protectively around his shoulders. There was the table, and the pictures, and over there the corner where-

 

“ _So_ spirited _tonight, aren't you, sem~pai~?”_  


 

Stifling what could have been a sob, the deathscythe fell back into his room and slammed the door, flattening himself against it.

 

“. . . _idiot_.”


	3. Shut the World Away

“ _Maybe you have played out your usefulness as a test subject, sempai.” Fetid breath on his ear; Stein's hands grip his partner's so hard the bones grind against each other. “I always wondered if the daughter of a Weapon would look the same inside or not.”_  


 

  
_Spirit goes very, very still beneath him. “You've had your fun, Stein.” It is hard to talk quickly when he is in so much pain, but the sudden upswelling of dread makes the words tumble from his lips faster than the blood spills from them. “I'm good and scared of you now. You've made your point. Hell, Stein, you_ win _! Just don't touch Maka!”_  


 

“ _And what will you offer me, sem~pai~?” The playful tone is back; Stein wrenches the older man's arms up behind his back and shoves his jagged soul wavelength into him again. The deathscythe goes limp in his grasp. Stein blasts him again to jolt him back to consciousness. “Sem~pai~? What spoils are you offering the victor, here?”_  


 

“ _Anything,” Spirit manages. His only focus is the little girl in his mind, green eyes and pigtails and no matter how she hates him, she's_ still _his daughter, and he_ will _protect her, no matter what the cost. “_ Anything _, Stein, just don't hurt my baby girl! What do you_ want _from me?!”_  


 

_Stein leans forward, lips against his cheek._

 

“ _I want you to_ fear me _.”_  


 

*~*

 

Maka's bedroom door was open when Soul got up to take a leak in the middle of the night. Blair, in kitten mode, was sitting in the crack watching intently. “Hey,” he whispered, not wanting to wake his Meister up. “What's going on?”

 

“Shhh,” Blair scolded, holding a paw up to her mouth. Her eyes were intent; after a second Soul realized he could hear a low, melodic voice singing.

 

“Lullaby, baby-bye, cradled in blue,  
Papa and angels keep watch over you,  
Under your slumber robe, precious one, rest,  
Lullaby, sleep-a-bye, in your soft nest.”

 

Soul opened the door a bit wider. Maka's father was sitting in a chair by her bedside; the moonlight showed just how gaunt and battered he really looked this late at night, lack of sleep ringing his eyes like kohl. One arm was bound up in a sling; he had stretched the other out, brushing a stray hair out of Maka's face. Spirit hadn't noticed his audience; he paused for a moment as if to catch his breath, free hand held against his broken ribs for a second, then began again.

 

“Lullaby, baby-bye, soar in your dreams  
Over the housetop, the mountains and streams;  
Higher and higher, love, soon you will fly  
Into the dreamland on love's lullaby.  
  
“Love clothes the lily in radiant white.  
Love feeds the lambkins, and guards through the night,  
Love watches over each hamlet and hall,  
Love never fails, but it cares for us all.”

 

The lullaby faded away; Maka rolled over towards her father in her sleep, peacefully curled up in a ball in her blanket. Spirit watched her for a moment before slowly standing up.

 

“Yo, old man,” Soul's voice was not unkind. “How'd you get in here?”

 

Spirit started, eyes widening in a brief flash of fear before recognition settled in. He closed Maka's door behind him. Blair meowed happily, purring and rubbing up against his ankles. “I let him in, of course. He brought me a fish!”

 

Spirit said nothing; Soul scowled at him. “Maka's kinda old for lullabies. What, did you have a bad dream or something?”

 

“Yeah. I did.”

 

The admission was startling. For the first time since the incident, Soul got a good look at the deathscythe; he looked a hell of a lot worse up close like this than he did from a distance. Up close Soul could see the bruises around his wrists, the ligature marks ringing his throat, the cuts on his face; the set of his jaw that belied the constant pain he was in. Faded blue eyes wouldn't meet his albino red ones, but the worry in them was still obvious. “I had to make sure she was really all right. That's all.”

 

Soul stared at him for a moment. While the looks were one thing, the older Weapon's sudden reserved nature was far more disconcerting. He began walking towards the front door; Soul followed close behind him. “. . . you said something about Stein hurting her when you first showed up in class the other day. Did he threaten her? Is he still out there?”

 

There was no immediate answer save for the taller man shuddering slightly. Spirit stopped walking long enough to glance over his shoulder at Soul. “Thank you,” he said. “For looking out for my little girl.” He opened the front door, shoulders slumping. “I'll see myself out.”

 

“Yeah, uh, you're-” The door swung shut. “-welcome?” Soul glanced down at Blair, who was lazily grooming her chest fur. “That was officially weird.”

 

“What was weird?”

 

The young Weapon turned around; Maka stood in her doorway, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Was there someone here? I thought I heard voices.”

 

“Huh? Nah, just me and Blair. She was sneaking in fish.” Blair shot him a dirty look.

 

Maka yawned again; it was obvious she wasn't anywhere near awake. “Oh. Okay.”

 

“. . . hey, Maka, you all right?”

 

“Yeah.” She smiled as she headed back into her bedroom. “I was dreaming I was flying.”

 

*~*

 

The Death Room floor was covered in papers and maps when Spirit entered the next day. “. . . what's all this?” he asked, nudging the corner of a old sheaf of papers with one sandal.

 

“You're late,” Azusa snapped; she poked her head up from behind a stack of mirrors she was trying unsuccessfully to assemble. “And you look like a slob. Just because you're wounded doesn't mean you're an _invalid_ , Spirit.”

 

That earned her an even stare. Getting dressed was still difficult, what with his ribs and one arm in a sling- he'd thought the old button-up plaid shirt and jeans were a better compromise than the track suit. “Nice to see you too, Azusa.”

 

She had the decency to look embarrassed at that. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Marie's being all maudlin and Joe's holed himself up, Justin's off doing God-knows-what, and the other deathscythes _still_ won't come in to help out. You'd think they'd take this threat more seriously!” She huffed and took off her glasses, rubbing at her eyes. “Think you could help me out?”

 

Spirit shrugged his good shoulder. “I can try. Don't know how much I can do one-handed. What do you need?”

 

“Can you hold this mirror stand up for me? I've got to bolt it down to the floor and it won't stay put. And don't step on any of my papers.”

 

After settling himself into position (he'd managed to avoid most of her mess, though a few of her maps had ended up with dusty shoeprints in the middle of them, something she'd complained vociferously about), Spirit leaned up against the pole he was hanging on to and looked down at his schoolmate. “Where's Shinigami-sama?”

 

She didn't even glance up from her work. “Presiding over Crona's trial. It's not going to go well for the kid.”

 

“. . . that's a shame.”

 

“What, you _pity_ him?”

 

“Yeah. I do. The kid was raised by Medusa, and she doesn't give a damn if he lives or dies – Crona's just an experiment to her.” There was a quiet musing to his voice. “When we're young, our parents are the law, the world. I don't think he knew there _was_ another way until he came here, and even then, the bond between a parent and child isn't that easily broken. Doesn't that mean something?”

 

Azusa looked up at that; light flashed off the lenses of her glasses. “And how much of Stein's madness can we blame on that child's actions?”

 

Spirit blanched. “I-”

 

“I just can't feel sorry for him. I mean, how many of your injuries are because Stein's madness was accelerated by Medusa and that child you pity so much?”

 

The mirror stand began to rattle slightly.

 

“I wonder how much of it really was Medusa's influence and how much of it was just his own natural madness coming out – _watch it_ , Spirit!”

 

The metal pole fell to the ground with a crash, narrowly missing her head. Spirit stood back a step, head hung low and a fist hanging by his side. “Stop,” he managed. “Just- just _stop_.”

 

Azusa sat back on her heels with a sigh. It was impossible to make out his expression, but his slim frame was trembling hard. “Hey,” she began again, her voice unexpectedly gentle. “I know we don't always get along, but . . . I'm worried about you. We all are. Talk to me.”

 

He shook his head almost violently in the negative.

 

The younger deathscythe decided to take a different tact. “C'mon, sempai,” she coaxed, “I-”

 

The moment the second word left her lips, a pair of scythe blades shot out from the man in front of her, the tips narrowly missing her throat. “Don't _call me that!_ ” Spirit screamed; tears dripped off his chin to dampen the dusty floor below.

 

“ _Spirit!_ ”

 

Behind them both, Shinigami stood beside the large mirror in the center of the dais; he had entered at some point while they were talking without either one noticing. The eyeholes of his mask narrowed in poorly concealed anger. “Stand down. Azusa, are you all right?”

 

The blades disappeared instantly; she swallowed hard before standing up and making a show of dusting herself off. “I'm fine, Shinigami-sama.” She looked at her Meister, then to the still-trembling Spirit, confusion and sorrow writ heavy upon her brow.

 

A cartoonishly oversized hand patted her on the back before Shinigami swept past her to stand before the injured deathscythe. “I'll contact Joe and have him come help you out. But first . . . Spirit? Will you walk with me for a bit?”

 

DeathScythe rubbed at his eyes with his good hand for a moment, then raised his head. Looking at him now, Azusa wondered how she ever missed it – the exhaustion, the nervousness, the perpetually-haunted look that seemed to linger behind the normally cheerful Weapon's dusky blue eyes. It was if Stein had, by inscribing the word on his back, instilled the essence of fear directly into Spirit's soul.

 

As if realizing she was thinking about him, Spirit shifted his gaze away from her direction, unwilling to look either of them in the eye. “All right,” he said faintly. “Let's walk.”

 

*~*

 

“Do you know why Crona tried to go back to Medusa after all that time?”

 

It had taken nearly a half-hour's worth of walking before Spirit's nerves had settled down; after sending Joe off to help Azusa in the Death Room, Shinigami and Spirit took up residence in the very bowels of Death City, amongst the magic tools that the Academy had been collecting. “. . . she's his mother,” the redhead answered after a moment's reflection. He tilted himself back in Joe's chair, shifting to avoid pressure on his wounded back. “I suppose she ordered him to go back to her.”

 

“Partly correct.” The Reaper crossed his hands behind him. “Mostly, though, Crona did it out of fear.”

 

Spirit went silent.

 

“I've seen it over and over again. It's a cycle. Ashura is the most extreme example of it but . . . .” There was a low sigh from the taller being, and he seemed to stand a little less taller, a little less straight. “Fear is ultimately what drives a lot of people into the path of the kishin. They fear mortality, other people – or even being powerless.” Spirit flinched. “That fear is what drives them into seeking power, into taking power from others . . . into becoming kishin. Fear can be a powerfully negative force.”

 

He slid closer to Spirit, sitting on the edge of the desk and leaning over to stare into the Weapon's face. “It can also evolve a very powerful positive one.”

 

The redhead scoffed, barely able to meet his Meister's empty gaze. “I fail to see how fear can be positive, sorry.”

 

“In itself, it is not. It is in standing up to one's fears and conquering them that one draws true strength and power.”

 

Spirit drew into himself, shoulders slumping. “Spirit, I've seen you spring back from defeat before. You've faced fear before, and _won_. You're brave, I know how much strength you-”

 

“You're wrong.”

 

It was Shinigami's turn to go silent. “I'm not _brave_ ,” Spirit choked out. “I'm not _strong_. I'm-”

 

“You're exhausted, and in pain, and you lost a battle against a stronger opponent. There's no shame in that.” The Weapon let all four legs of his chair fall to the ground with a thud and put his head in his good hand, chest hitching. “Holding everything in is like a poison. It's best to let it all out instead of letting it fester.”

 

“And that would solve everything? The fear? The fact that we can't resonate?” The younger man snorted hopeless laughter. “I'm not a fool. I can feel it even here. My wavelength's too fucked up. Better you focus on honing your skills with Marie or Azusa. A Weapon you can't use is pretty worthless.”

 

“. . . Shinigami _Chop_.”

 

The blow was just hard enough to sting; Spirit looked up balefully through the veil of his hair at the concerned mask of his Meister. “You really are an idiot sometimes. I'm not doing this because you're my DeathScythe.” The Reaper sighed and tilted his head slightly, exposing the glint of deep-set, worried golden eyes behind the mask. A deep sign of trust to even go that far – Shinigami's human persona was a deeply guarded secret, one known to a scant handful of people. “I'm doing this because you're my _friend_. Please, let me _help_ you, Spirit.”

 

Spirit lowered his head. “I can't,” he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. “You don't understand – I just _can't_.”

 

Shinigami sighed; his eyes flickered out and he stood up to tower over his Weapon partner. “. . . if you change your mind on that, Spirit, you know where I am. But until you do, I can't help you.” He looked away. “Until then, you'll have to fight it alone.”

 

*~*

 

“Nake, snake . . . .”

 

Trembling fingers took the unlit cigarette from his lips and cast it over the side of the stone wall. A thin stream of blood soon followed it.

 

“Cobra, cobra . . . .”

 

Something made a splattering sound. A hysteric little giggle roiled up inside him, up from his chest through his throat until it burst from his lips, cackling and harsh. Another followed it, and another, until the air was suffused with mad laughter. Medusa didn't even look up from the crystal sphere in front of her. “Is something especially amusing you today, Stein?” she asked mildly.

 

The laughter cut off suddenly; the heavy thump of someone hitting the ground was her only answer. She turned and looked back over her shoulder, one eyebrow quirked curiously. “Stein?”

 

The mad scientist sat behind her, eyes wide and pupils unevenly dilated, staring enraptured at his blood-streaked hands. There was a corpse next to him – some kind of animal, dissected neatly into its base components – and the odor of the blood was beginning to suffuse the room with its metallic tang. The splattering sound had been the creature's brain, now so much mush against his shoe. “Did you know I could see minds?” he asked. “I can. I can.”

 

Medusa smiled slightly. “Really? Do tell.”

 

He didn't need the encouragement; his voice steamrollered over hers, drowning it out. “I saw it. I saw inside Sempai's mind. All I had to do was-” Large hands made a wringing motion in the air, clutching at something only he could see. His tongue touched his lips. “His thoughts were blue. Strong blue thoughts, on wings. Always flying.”

 

Stein grew quiet, his hands tracing the patterns of thoughts in flight in the air. “Flying . . . flying . . . .”

 

The childlike witch pattered over to him. One childlike hand rested on his knee; she gazed into his mad gaze with an almost predatory excitement. “And?” she coaxed.

 

Stein grinned, baring his canines. His sudden laugh was more like a bark of pain. “I tore their wings off. I tore their wings _off_ and made them _red_.” He snickered again; tracks of water began to roll from the corners of his eyes down his unshaven cheeks. “Sempai forgot to fear me. I made him _remember_. I made him remember _fear_. I gave him fear and _tore his wings off_ and now he'll _never_ fly again! He was _my_ partner first! _My_ experiment!”

 

One fist swung out blindly; it caught Medusa in the stomach, throwing her across the room. “He was _mine_ and he _forgot_ that! I made him _remember_! I marked him so no one could _forget_! I marked him with fear. I stole his wings and gave him _fear_ to fly with!” His head lolled back bonelessly on his neck; oversized fingers made flying motions in the air above his head, flicking droplets of blood everywhere.

 

Medusa struggled up to her elbows, catching her breath. Amazing how much Madness ran in the man, how naturally he took to it – and how little it had taken, in the end, to push him over the edge. In the end, her snake had been erased, Marie's calming wavelength restored, and all of it for naught as soon as Ashura's Madness poured out over the world.

 

How much of it was natural? How much of it was Medusa's interference? Even she couldn't say at this point.

 

“A shame I couldn't have seen it,” she murmured. She crawled back to his side, wiping salty water from his face with the backs of her tiny fingers. “I'm sure he broke just _beautifully_ under your hands.”

 

“. . . I broke Sempai, didn't I?” Stein hiccuped. He sobbed in between bouts of sudden insane laughter, clawing at his face with bloody hands and leaving tracks of blood and tears behind. “I broke him . . . I _broke_ him . . . .” The rambling faded into incoherent muttering; Stein rolled over onto his back and pulled another cigarette from his pack, placing it between his lips before staring at the ceiling.

 

Medusa smirked and licked the tears from her fingers.

 

Ah, her Stein.

 

Broken.

 

Triumph had never tasted so sweet.

 

*~*

 

“We're calling off the search for Stein tonight.”

 

Sid's reflection wavered in the mirror. “Tonight, sir? Do you want me to recall the teams that are out there looking, then?”

 

Shinigami stared blankly back at the mirror's surface. Behind him, Azusa and Joe were finishing setup of the odd assortment of mirrors that would serve as the Death Room's consoles, feeding information directly to the deathscythes working there. “Send them home as soon as they check back in with you next. There's no sense in keeping the students volunteering in the search up any later than we have to. Especially now that we know he's gone. I'll have someone inform Marie in the morning.”

 

“Right.” The zombie glanced at his watch, then back up. “What about Crona? The trial concluded today, didn't it?”

 

“Ah. That.” He turned from the mirror. “Guilty, of course. Unanimous verdict. Took less than an hour to come to that.”

 

“And the sentence?”

 

The Reaper sighed through his mask. “The recommended sentence was . . . what I had expected, honestly. Normally it would be exile, but given the extenuating circumstances they chose to recommend execution.”

 

Behind them, Azusa's eyes went wide. “What are you thinking, Shinigami-sama?” Sid asked.

 

“. . . I've had several requests for clemency in the case. His friends, of course – and that includes Kid – have all put in their petitions. They're compelling in the emotional sense, but not so much in the legal sense.”

 

“Who were the others?”

 

“Marie and Spirit.”

 

Sid twitched, visibly taken aback. “ _Those_ two? After all the trouble Crona caused? The kid must be one special case if they're willing to stand up for him.”

 

If Shinigami could have expressed amusement through the mask, he would have. “I think the actions speak more for the characters of our deathscythes than they do for Crona's. At any rate, I've decided to review the case.”

 

“It's your decision, sir. But won't he be a liability should Medusa try to get him back again?”

 

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. There are more pressing matters to attend to. Any news on the other project I've had you on? Azusa, you might want to keep listening in.”

 

Azusa's cheeks flushed bright red as she was caught out eavesdropping; Joe continued tinkering with the adjustable mirror stands, grinning at her. “Of course,” Sid replied after a moment. “DeathScythe hasn't been to ChupaCabra's since the incident. He hasn't been to any nightclub anywhere, for that matter. He has been spending stretches of the early morning watching his daughter's apartment, but otherwise he stays inside.” He flipped the pages of his notebook, scratching the back of his head with his pencil. “I don't know if I feel right doing this, Shinigami-sama. When I was alive, I gave people some privacy. That's the kind of man I was.”

 

The Reaper folded his arms in front of him. “Then I suggest you _become_ the kind of man that gets comfortable with being a bit nosy.”

 

Sid shifted again – Shinigami's tone of voice suggested he would brook no argument over his qualms where his Weapon was concerned – then frowned and shuffled his notebook. “. . . I got a peek into DeathScythe's medical records like you asked.” There was an indignant squawk from the Weapon sheathed at the zombie's waist. “He's lost weight. His wounds aren't healing properly. Apparently he's not sleeping right-”

 

A flash of light, and Nygus was standing beside him, a scowl etched upon her face behind the bandages. “Shinigami-sama, Spirit needs a mental evaluation – which I had planned to tell you tomorrow if two certain _somebodies_ hadn't decided to butt into private records.” Her glare was hot enough to melt metal. “Look, we all know Spirit. We've all seen him go through some screwed-up stuff. Not even his _divorce_ had him this messed up, and we all know how much he loved Kami.”

 

“He nearly took my head off today for calling him 'sempai',” Azusa added. “I've never seen him that upset. Actually, I don't think I've ever seen him truly upset like that, period.”

 

To Shinigami's other side, Joe stepped up and regarded the others with narrowed eyes. “. . . he's lost the ability to control his own soul wavelength. With his ability to control others' wavelengths with his own, that could be dangerous.”

 

Shinigami chuckled wearily under his breath. “And here I'd been hoping to keep this under wraps,” he sighed.

 

“At least you two can still synchronize?” Sid offered.

 

The Grim Reaper looked away. “Right,” he said, and there was enough uncertainty in his voice to send chills down their backs.

 

“. . . all this talk still doesn't solve the problem, though,” Azusa continued, getting the topic back on track. “Something has to be done about Spirit. He might be womanizing and unreliable and annoying as hell, but he wouldn't let any of us down if we needed him.”

 

“Don't look at me,” Joe said. “I fix machines, not people. Besides, I thought it was just a fight.”

 

“I don't think that's all that happened.” Nygus was staring back at them through the mirror, her fingers drumming a staccato beat on the glass. “If we could just get Spirit to _talk_ . . . .”

 

Shinigami rubbed the side of his mask with one finger. “It's late,” he finally said. “Let's get our work done and call it a night, hmm? I have the feeling tomorrow's going to be a busy day.”

 

Nygus and Sid flashed off the mirror; Joe began gathering up his materials. Azusa frowned and began to tread off until an oversized hand on her shoulder made her stop. “Shinigami-sama?”

 

“I need you to substitute for me tomorrow.” His gaze seemed faraway, staring at the endlessly cycling pattern of clouds that floated around his desert room. “If I don't explicitly call for someone, or give them permission to come in, they are to be barred access to the Death Room. Anything that comes up short of a direct attack by Arachnophobia or Medusa – I need you and Sid to handle it until I say otherwise. Could you do that for me?”

 

“I – well, yes, I suppose we could.” She blinked and nervously adjusted her glasses. “It's a tall order, but if that's what you need, I'll do my best. If I can ask, though – what on earth will you be doing that's so urgent?”

 

Shinigami didn't even look down at her. “Taking care of something I should have long before now,” he said quietly.


	4. Fear in a Handful of Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for triggering imagery; if you are easily upset by depictions of sexual violence, please either skip the italicized scenes or skip this chapter entirely. Tread lightly; here there be monsters.

Chapter 4: Fear in a Handful of Dust

 

“Soul, you forgot to take out the trash _again_!”

 

Maka huffed, trying to pull the overstuffed bag out of the can; she barely succeeded without toppling the entire thing over. She had it tied up and ready to take out before stepping on something slippery – it skidded one way and she went the other and everything landed in a heap on the floor. “What in the-”

 

She had tripped on a neatly wrapped parcel, the corner damp with now-spoiled milk. The gift her papa had left her a week ago, all but forgotten, laid there accusingly. “Oh,” she said.

 

“Yo, you OK, Maka?” Soul asked from the hallway.

 

“Yeah.” She picked up the parcel, ignoring the smell of garbage. “Could you take out the trash for me? I think I should take a look at this.”

 

Soul grinned. “About time,” he snarked, scooping up the bag. “I'll be back in a few.”

 

She waved at him without looking. The plain string on the package was easily untied; the wrapping was plain butcher's paper. The books – three of them, she could see now – were thankfully undamaged from their stint in the garbage, if a little odorous. The top one was an antique 1960s guide to New Orleans jazz clubs; she recognized the names of a few of the bands on the front. Below that was a book of poetry, bookmarked to her favorite poem, William Henley's _Invictus_. “He remembered,” she whispered. “How did he remember that?”

 

It was all too easy to remember the first time she had heard that poem, her father's voice reading it in a heroic cadence, her constant questions about what 'unconquerable' and 'bludgeonings' meant, and if souls really needed captains. 

 

Before the misty-eyed feeling could grow into something stronger, she set the book of poetry aside and looked to the third book. This one puzzled her. Shel Silverstein's _The Giving Tree_ – she opened it up to find a note in Spirit's loopy handwriting in the front cover.

 

_Maka, I know you've never liked this book, but it's been one of my favorites since you were small. Maybe when you're a mama you'll understand. Until then, keep it as a favor for your old man, please? Love, Papa_

 

She flipped through the illustrations, not paying attention to Soul as he came back and sat down next to her. At the final page, Maka skimmed the lines over and over, then snapped the book shut. “Something up, Maka?” Soul asked, flipping through the jazz guide with interest.

 

“. . . how would you feel about doing some extra housework with me today?”

 

*~*

 

“You want to leave the Academy?”

 

Azusa hovered by the door, straining to listen in on the rather heated conversation Marie was having with Shinigami. The blonde had burst in, in tears – Spirit had delivered the news of the canceled search to her earlier that day – and seeing as Marie was one of two people listed the Reaper was willing to see on his self-imposed day of exile, Azusa had let her her through. Now they were back in the Death Room arguing; while the raven-haired deathscythe would never admit it, Marie was a close friend, and she felt partially responsible for her.

 

At least, that was her excuse for eavesdropping.

 

“I need Crona to find Stein. You don't understand.”

 

“Quite the contrary. I understand far too well. You're forgetting what happened at the trial, though – and assuming Crona will help. And that's not mentioning our pact.”

 

“Then I'll go without him! You're all so worried about Spirit, no one seems to care that Stein's suffering too!”

 

“Marie, you go too far.”

 

“No! It's not fair! I know he's done some awful things, but that was the Madness! You know he has problems with it, and Medusa made it worse! He could be suffering under her right now and we wouldn't know it!”

 

“. . . and if his own Madness is the reason behind-”

 

“Then we'll deal with it! But don't ask me to give up on him because of _your_ stupid bargain!”

 

Azusa's eyes went wide.

 

“. . . I was just going to _fire_ you, but quitting makes it easier on all of us.”

 

Azusa nearly choked. Apparently, from the sound of it, so did Marie.

 

“Wh- _what?!_ ”

 

“But before I give you freedom – and Crona – I want a favor from _you_.”

 

*~*

 

Maka, Soul, and Blair stood in front of Spirit's house, armed to the teeth with buckets, mops, and cleaning supplies. “Tell me again why we're doing this?” Soul grumbled, trying to keep his eyes off of Blair – or, more precisely, Blair's bosom, framed nicely in a French maid's outfit.

 

“I just . . . after he got hurt, I doubt he can do all the cleaning on his own, so I thought we'd help Papa tidy his house up. I mean, I wouldn't _care_ , but he _is_ hurt and it'll look bad if I don't do something to help out, won't it?”

 

“Since when do you care?”

 

“Maka . . . _chop_!”

 

Having sufficiently driven her point (and a heavy book) home in Soul's thick skull, she dug out her house keys and unlocked the front door. “Lucky for me I have a spare key-”

 

The door swung open.

 

Maka dropped everything in her arms, mouth agape. Soul stepped past her, bringing an arm up across her protectively. “What in the _hell_ happened here?”

 

The living room was a complete wreck – there was no other word for it. Her grandmother's antique glass-top table was shattered, shards of glass scattered all over the damaged hardwood floor. The pictures still on the wall were hanging askew; most of them had fallen, their glass adding to the danger. Splotches and puddles of dried blood were splattered everywhere, walls, floor, even bloody footprints and shoeprints tracking into the rest of the house. The hardwood floor was crushed in the center. “Maka, where did your old man say Stein attacked him at?”

 

“I- I-” Maka stepped inside and sank onto the couch, staring at the disaster area in disbelief.

 

“. . . I'm gonna find a mirror and call Shinigami-sama.” Soul disappeared into the bedroom. 

 

Blair stepped in, sniffing the air hesitantly. Her nose wrinkled as she approached the far corner of the room, where the worst of the carnage seemed to have occured. The pupils of her eyes thinned into slits and she hissed. “Maka? You shouldn't be here. This place is _poison_.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

The feline woman shook her head. “It's _poison_. Where's Soul? We have to leave. Get one of your Academy people to take care of this.”

 

“Shit, that's not gonna be easy.” Soul came back out of the hallway, trying not to tread on any of the bloodstains. “Somebody went nuts and broke every mirror and piece of glass in the house. We'll have to use a windowpane or something.”

 

“Then let's get out of here and go find one!” Blair rushed over to Maka and pulled her up off the couch. “Come on, kiddo.”

 

“But- But Papa-”

 

“He's not here, Maka.” Soul looked between the girls, face set in a determined scowl. “Blair's right. We need to get out of here and let the Academy know what's going on. Something's messed up about this whole situation.”

 

Maka let herself be pulled away, looking back over her shoulder at the wreckage with misty green eyes. “Papa,” she whispered. “What _happened_ to you?”

 

*~*

 

Spirit stood at the threshold of Shinigami's chancel, rubbing his wounded shoulder in a show of nonchalance. Before him was Marie and his Meister, seated at a low table and sipping on tea. Or, at least, Shinigami was – Marie was quietly rolling the cup between her hands, avoiding his eyes. “Hey,” he said, looking from the Reaper to Marie and back. “Azusa said it was urgent. What's going on?”

 

“Have a seat,” Shinigami said, waving at an oversized pillow next to the table. “Would you like some tea? Or would you prefer sake?”

 

The younger man glanced between them, at Marie's untouched cake, at the too-precise arrangement of the tea service on the table, at how close to the other two sitting down would put him. “I think I prefer to stand, thanks.” He shifted his stance. “What's all this about, anyway? A little late for a tea party, isn't it?”

 

“. . . it's about the night Stein disappeared,” Marie said, her voice soft.

 

DeathScythe instantly braced himself, eyes narrowing in anger.

 

“I have reason to believe you haven't been exactly forthcoming with the truth about what happened that night, Spirit,” Shinigami continued, turning to look his Weapon partner in the eye. “I'm giving you a chance to explain yourself.”

 

“You think I _carved myself up_ to give that screwhead an excuse?” His words were bitter, furious. “I come to the school bleeding to death and you think I'm _lying_?!”

 

Marie reached out to him to calm him down; Spirit jerked away from her, faded eyes flashing in sudden fear. “Spirit, we know you're not lying! It's just – there's something else you're not telling us and we're worried! This isn't _like_ you!”

 

DeathScythe practically growled, his good arm wrapped protectively around his aching ribs. “I told you everything already. I shouldn't have to repeat-”

 

“You were home by ten that night.”

 

Spirit stopped dead in his tracks.

 

“Stein attacked you in your home, not in an alleyway.” Shinigami rose from his seat to stare down at his partner, who was beginning to breathe in heavy, terrified gasps. “What's more, reports put Stein leaving your neighborhood around three in the morning.”

 

“Th- that's a _lie_ ,” the deathscythe stuttered, taking a step away from them. His voice shook; his thin frame began to tremble. “It's – you _can't_ know that!”

 

Marie rose behind the Reaper, reaching out to pull him back; he pressed forward, relentless. “Sid traced your movements back over the day. The cat witch Blair alerted us to the scene at your home.” The color drained from Spirit's face. Visibly terrified, he skittered backwards, barely managing not to trip over his own feet. “We're going to find out the truth one way or another. I'll ask you again: what really happened, Spirit?”

 

The younger man's voice cracked in desperation. “I told you the _truth_! Nothing else happened! _Nothing!_ Shinigami-sama _, please!_ ”

 

Shinigami advanced until he stood mere feet away from him. “Then you leave me no choice,” he said, lifting his mask with one hand. Below it was golden eyes framed by white-striped coal-black hair, a chiseled face and surprisingly soft lips, a classical Roman nose – the true face of the Grim Reaper, overlaid with a kind of resignation and bitter sorrow. Behind him, Marie grasped his hand.

 

Spirit's eyes flew open wide.

 

“Forgive me, my friend,” he whispered as he and Marie grasped DeathScythe with their free hands.

 

“ _Healing Wavelength._ ”

 

The dais exploded.

 

*~*

 

Cold

 

so

 

cold it's breaking

 

breaking

 

stay out _stay out_ _**STAY OUT**_  


 

I can't

 

hold

 

together

 

...

 

what have you

 

_done?_

 

*~*

 

He landed with a bone-crunching thud on the concrete floor. Marie's wavelength was fading fast; he let it slip through his broken fingers out of this dream before pushing himself up to his knees.

 

That was odd. He didn't usually have knees.

 

Then again, he wasn't usually human, either.

 

Disorientation washed over him again; he looked around the room with passing interest. It was bare slate-grey concrete from floor to walls to ceiling, a battered old projector with the lens cap on sitting on a wooden crate in the center of it. There were no visible outlets or power sources, and yet it churned through the looped film reel without pausing. A data transfer cable hung from its side; his eyes followed the course of the cord as it looped around the crate and across the floor up to where it was hooked up . . .

 

. . . into the side of a red wolf's skull.

 

Around the sleeping wolf's neck was shackled a little flickering blue orb, cracked and dented and achingly familiar. The disorientation melted away; Shinigami stared at the Wolf and its jewel before pushing himself to his feet. “Stubborn till the end, aren't you, Spirit?” he murmured.

 

As if in response, the Wolf opened one silver eye to stare at him. It lifted its lips in a warning snarl, baring razor-sharp fangs. The Reaper grinned back in response. “Oh. Well. You're not Spirit after all, are you?”

 

It huffed and laid its head back on its crossed paws. _Brilliant deduction._

 

“I thought it was,” Shinigami replied idly, pacing the width of the room. No cracks, no entrance or exit . . . nothing. Just an impenetrable room with a Wolf and . . . a projector. A running projector with the lens cap on, plugged into an alpha predator.

 

The Wolf gave another warning growl as the Reaper laughed.

 

“I think I see what you are now,” he told it, circling it and the projector. The Wolf rose to its haunches, claws flexing. It had looked small when lying down; standing up, its head easily reached Shinigami's shoulder. “I should have seen it sooner. I suppose old age is getting to me.”

 

It howled a warning note; the room shook with the power of its voice.

 

“You're _Fear_.” Shinigami looked to the heavy chain around its neck, to the soul trapped within. “You're the Fear that keeps Spirit trapped.”

 

Something like a barking laugh came from the Wolf. _Am I? Maybe. Maybe not._

 

“I think you are. And if you're the Fear . . . .” His eyes went from the cord to the projector, merrily running its endless loop of film. “Then _that_ has to be what he is really afraid of. Am I right?”

 

The Wolf took a menacing step forward, canines bared. It growled.

 

Shinigami stood his ground. “Spirit, I know you can hear me. You have nothing to be afraid of. I promise you-”

 

The Wolf lashed out with its claws; Shinigami managed to throw an arm up to block, grunting in pain as spiritual flesh was torn. “Spirit!”

 

Another swipe, and he managed to block before those razor-sharp claws hit home. Pivoting, the Reaper swung out with an uppercut that knocked the Wolf back a step or two. There was no time to take a breath; he pressed his advantage by jabbing a fist into the canine's eye. It yelped in pain, clapping a paw over its injured eye and snapping out with its jaws.

 

The bite ripped the sleeve off his coat and took a chunk of flesh with it. Shinigami cursed and kicked the beast in the throat as hard as he could. There was a choking sound before the Wolf smashed him face-first into the floor with one giant paw.

 

Shinigami had to scramble to regain his footing. The Wolf didn't let him get that far; before he could get back to his feet, it leapt upon him, fangs bared above his head. It howled in triumph-

 

-and the death god below him pulled hard on the cord plugged into its skull, yanking it out. “Checkmate, you bastard,” he gasped.

 

An unearthly scream shook the room as the Wolf backed away, silver eyes wide. Behind them, the projector began to rewind – the _screaming_ began to rewind, voices sped up in reverse before they all stopped with a click. Shinigami pushed himself up on his knees moments before teeth clamped down on the collar of his jacket and forced him to sit down hard on the concrete.

 

“What are you-”

 

The lens cap popped off the projector.

 

Voices began to echo throughout the room.

 

The Wolf began laughing, laughing as Shinigami was blinded by the light of the projector – swallowed by the memory of fear.

 

*~*

 

_Stein shoves him face-first into the corner of his living room and he can see dust and shards of glass skittered across the floor, the shadows of the room dancing and laughing around him._

 

_He leans forward, lips against his cheek._

 

“ _I want you to_ fear me _.”_

 

“ _I'm_ afraid _, goddammit!” he nearly shrieks, and it's true, it's_ so _true, he's never been this scared in his life, not when he fought his first witch, not even when Kami left him, because there is so much more at stake here than his marriage, it's his little girl and it's Stein, Stein and his Madness, and there's no predicting what he'll do in his insanity._

 

“ _Are you_ sure _, sem~pai~? Fear usually has more autonomic reactions than this. Your heart rate has hardly risen above 120.” He draws something moist up over the incisions in his ex-partner's back – licking the blood spilling from the wounds. The deathscythe gives a tiny shudder; he's beginning to grow faint-headed. “You're not even shivering.”_

 

_Spirit leans his forehead against the floor – only for a second, Stein quickly tightens the handmade noose around his throat to pull him up (made from his cross necktie, how ironic is that?) - and cries out in frustration as soon as he can draw breath again. He's trapped, so trapped, and no matter how hard he tries his body is too weak to respond to his demands.“I don't- I can't- what more do you_ want _from me?!”_

 

_The noose tightens again. Stein's fingers grind into his wrists so hard they go numb. He thrashes for air; dark spots bloom behind his eyes and claw at his consciousness before the cloth goes slack and he can draw a great whooping gasp of air. The mad scientist is_ toying _with him, he realizes – playing with him like a cat does a dying mouse._

 

_Something finally snaps inside him._

 

“ _. . . you're shaking, sem~pai~! Is that some_ fear _I sense?”_

 

_Spirit throws his head back and practically screams a hoarse litany of curses at the man behind him. “You know what?_ Fuck you _, Stein! Fuck_ you _, fuck your_ fear _, and fuck this_ stupid _fucking_ game _of yours! LET ME_ GO _!”_

 

_For a moment the pressure on him lessens; Stein lets go of the older man's wrists and sits back. He hiccups a laugh once, twice, three times, before heaving a hissing sigh._

 

“ _Soul Sutures.”_

 

_The tough spiritual threads sew Spirit's arms together behind him, digging into flesh and cloth. Rough hands haul him up and shove him over onto his back; the splintered floor and scattered glass dig painfully into his already wounded back, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain. Stein hovers over him. His eyes are unfocused, pupils unevenly dilating, mesmerizing. “I know how to see your fear, sempai,” he breathes. “I know how to see inside your_ mind _. I can. I can do it.” There's the rustling sound of leather running through cloth, and Stein lays a splayed hand atop Spirit's groin. “Let me show you_ how _.”_

 

_Faded blue eyes go wide in horror._

 

“ _. . ._ no! _Stein,_ stop _this-”_

 

_Fabric tears under calloused fingers. Breath reeking of stale tobacco and rotting lotus seeds envelops him. Stein leans forward and his tongue darts out to lick the rim of the other's ear. Spirit thrashes against his bonds as he's partially stripped from the waist down, kicking and snarling curses. A sharp kick hits the other in the jaw. Another catches the scientist in the solar plexus. Stein grasps him by one ankle, pressing his weight on the other. “Show me your_ fear _.”_

 

“ _Stein,_ please _!”_

 

_Cool night air brushes against bare skin. Soul sutures stitch his shoulders flat against the floor. Calloused fingers prod at soft, limp flesh. Lips on his inner thigh – Stein bites down hard enough to break skin and licks up the tiny dribble of blood. “So_ spirited _tonight, aren't you, sem~pai~?”_

 

“ _You son of a-”_

 

_The metallic purr of a zipper coming down. Heavy breathing speeds up. Fingers press inward and he bites his lower lip, bites back any sound, any show of weakness._

 

“ _Sempai._ Show me your mind. _”_

 

_Sudden weight, tearing pressure, pain_ pain _ **PAIN** \-- the cry catches in Spirit's throat and he tries to hold it back, tries to press the tears back but it hurts, ohgod it HURTS, and Stein is thrusting within him, jagged animalistic movements that shoot pain up his spine and his hands are on him, trying to coax him into stiffness--_

 

“ _Sem~pai~”_

 

_The breathy little moan does it. Tears spring to the deathscythe's eyes as his ex-partner moans the honorific, rocking his hips inside him, raping him on the floor of his own home, taking the safe place he knew and ripping it apart. “Sem~pai~,” Stein moans, staring down at Spirit as he fondles him, the thrusting growing harder, more erratic. “I can see your_ mind _, sem~pai~! I can see your wings_ breaking _, sem~pai~!”_

 

_And God, despite the agony and the shame that roils up within him, his flesh is responding to_ something _, and it_ hurts _to be so betrayed by his own body – his Weapon blood deserting him for protection and now his manhood deserting his pride. Above him the madman giggles and licks his own hand before folding it back around the smooth length._

 

“ _Don't feel bad, sempai. It's an automatic response to stimulation. It doesn't mean you enjoy this. Or maybe it does._ That _I can't tell.”_

 

_He pauses in his thrusting to study Spirit' face, the flushed cheeks, the fury and the humiliation, the tears beading up at the corners of his sky-blue eyes. He leans forward, pulling himself almost all the way out of the other man's abused body before ramming back in. A cry of pain, and something hot splatters across his bare stomach. Stein's crazed eyes light up; Spirit closes his own in shame._

 

“ _Sem~pai~”_

 

_Ragged, irregular thrusts above him. Hands grip his hips hard enough to leave handprint bruises. The smack of flesh on flesh, of animal excitement, of power. Fingernails dig bloody crescent moons into his skin-_

 

“ _I – can see –_ sempai _!”_

 

_Stein thrusts himself in to the hilt, body taut and muscles quivering, and screams his orgasm. Something tears inside Spirit and he tries to scream but at the end even his voice betrays him, his scream of pain coming out as a hoarse whimper._

 

_The madman collapses atop him._

 

_Spirit lays there, unmoving, even after the younger man pulls out. He doesn't want to see it. He doesn't need the confirmation of what he can feel, the constant throbbing ache, the stinging warmth oozing from between his legs. There is silence for a moment before a hand comes down and twists itself in his hair._

 

“ _Where did it_ go _?”_

 

_The madman hauls him up to his knees by the hair; he wobbles unsteadily, trying to balance on weak knees. “Open your eyes and look at me,” Stein hisses. “I have to see your mind. I have to see the_ fear _.”_

 

_Spirit does as ordered, lightheaded from shock and blood loss. The man standing before him is like a grotesque parody of his former friend, erection still jutting proudly from the fly of his trousers. He draws a tremulous breath at the sudden sight, fear and self-loathing and shame crashing over him in a tidal wave that threatens to break his composure completely._

 

“ _. . . guess who's been watching this whole time, sempai~?”_

 

_Stein drags him closer. He grips his blood-stained erection with his free hand and traces his ex-partner's lips with it, a broad smile splitting his face in two as the other tries unsuccessfully to squirm away. “So many pictures of Maka. I wonder what she would think about her 'papa'_ now _, hmm?”_

 

_Maka._

 

_Maka had seen . . . ?_

 

“ _Finish me and I won't make_ her _do it instead.”_

 

_A soft cry escapes his lips. There is no other threat that could have been_ half _as effective as this – the mere thought of Stein touching his daughter, his innocent little girl, breaks down the last vestiges of tattered pride he holds on to. The tears he had been so valiantly holding back now spill from terrified blue eyes down his cheeks. This time when the madman presses forward he takes the vile thing in and tries not to gag on the taste of thick semen, his own metallic blood – tries not to choke as the other man roughly thrusts in._

 

_Spirit sobs, and that is all it takes for Stein to come undone._

 

_His arms come free of their bonds. The now broken man falls to his hands and knees before Stein, sobbing, coughing, dry-heaving, semen and tears dripping down his chin. He drops his head to the floor like a penitent at the altar. His thin frame shakes with the force of his cries. “ **Please** ,” he begs in a broken whisper. “No more. Leave – leave Maka alone. _Please _.”_

 

“ _. . ._ There _it is.”_

 

_A sudden shout, a sudden snap of pain . . . darkness._

 

*~*

 

The projector whirred to a stop.

 

Shinigami came back to himself in a haze of tears, fingers digging furrows into the concrete floor. His breathing, rapid and hard, slowed gradually. The air in the room was suffocating, heavy with shame. “Oh, _Spirit_ ,” he whispered.

 

Chains clanked behind him.

 

The Reaper whirled around to face the Wolf, now laying protectively next to a filthy, naked human curled up into a tight fetal ball. Even blind he would know the bruised figure there, chained to the Wolf – he knew that broken soul like the back of his own hand.

 

His Weapon.

 

His best friend.

 

“. . . Spirit.”

 

The younger man curled up even tighter at the sound of his voice, shaking so hard it was a wonder he could even sit upright. “ _Go away,_ ” he hissed. “Stop _looking_ at me!”

 

“Spirit.” Shinigami took a step forward; so did the Wolf. “It's-”

 

“It's _what_? Would you like me to humiliate myself a little longer for you? Do you want more of the _free show_?” He choked and drew in tighter; the Wolf's fur deepened red, claws scraping the concrete.

 

The Reaper took another step forward, putting him in reach of the Wolf's claws. It didn't lash out at him – yet. “I'm so sorry,” he murmured.

 

“ _I don't want your fucking pity!_ ” Spirit screamed, finally raising his head. Bloodshot azure eyes stared wildly at him through crimson bangs. “It was my own fault! I'm a fucking _deathscythe_! I was his _partner_! I should have been able to _stop_ him!” His fingernails were clawing into his arms, drawing glowing blue blood – guilt and self-loathing rending his soul. “Why did you have to come here?!”

 

“Spirit-”

 

The Wolf bared its fangs, edging closer around the broken man. “How am I supposed to protect Maka – how am I supposed to protect you if I can't even protect _myself_? Huh?! Tell me _that_!”

 

“ _Spirit-_ ”

 

“I can't stop jumping at shadows, I can't stand hearing _his_ name – how long until I hurt somebody because I'm too damned _weak_ to grow a pair and get _over_ it like a man?”

 

“Spirit Albarn. That's _enough._ ”

 

“What?!” Spirit raged through his tears. The Wolf was snarling now, fur bristling and claws digging trenches into the floor, saliva dripping from razor-sharp canines. “Why did you have to come here? Why did you come here when I am _not worth-_ ”

 

Shinigami dropped to one knee and wrapped the terrified DeathScythe in his arms.

 

The Wolf froze over them, paralyzed; Spirit shivered in his grasp, hot tears rolling down his cheeks and soaking into the collar of the Reaper's shirt. “I came because you are my friend, and because you are _worth coming after_.” One gloved hand stole up to stroke the Weapon's hair in a comforting gesture. “Never forget that, Spirit.”

 

A choked whimper was his only answer.

 

“I can only imagine what you're going through. But I can tell you that you are strong, and that it's _not_ your fault.” The deathscythe began to protest; Shinigami simply held him closer. “He is to blame for his actions. Not you. I know how strong you are. Who better than me to know that? You survived all that to protect your daughter and still help me, still help us to fight – and you call yourself _weak_?”

 

There was a moment's hesitation before the younger man clutched at Shinigami's coat, weeping into his shoulder. The Wolf – the embodiment of his Fear – let out a long sigh and flopped to the floor, resting its head back on its paws. When it opened its eyes again, one iris had changed from cold silver to a warm gold; the fur around that eye began to shade brilliant blue instead of fiery red.

 

Shinigami allowed himself a faint smile and looked back down at the battered man cradled in his arms. “Spirit? Do you think we can go back now?”

 

The reply, when it finally came, was barely more than a childish whisper. “Do I – do they have to – to _know_?”

 

“. . . not yet.” Spirit ducked his head, trembling. “We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. I promise you this, though – you won't be alone when the time does come.”

 

Silence descended for several long moments before Spirit nodded, once. The Reaper closed his eyes-

 

*~*

 

“Shinigami-sama! Oh, Azusa, I think he's coming to!”

 

“Father?! Can you hear me?”

 

The Death Room was in shambles when the Reaper came to. Wooden crosses lay broken and scattered; the table where they had been taking tea had been broken in half and thrown across different parts of the room. Scorch marks on the floor outlined the juncture of souls where he and Marie had cornered Spirit.

 

Speaking of-

 

Shinigami shot up, almost dislodging the younger man sprawled across his lap. Spirit was deep asleep, his face dusty and tear-stained and almost peaceful for the first time in a week. “He fought us,” Marie explained from her place next to them. Kid, sitting on his opposite side, furrowed his brow but said nothing. “I've never felt _anyone_ use their soul wavelength to push like that. He pushed me completely out. I didn't know if you'd made it to him or not – did you?”

 

“How long were we out?”

 

“Almost an hour.” Kid folded his arms over his chest. “What were you doing in here? What happened? I felt that blast clear across the city! You had me worried sick!”

 

“I tried to keep him out, Shinigami-sama,” Azusa said apologetically, giving the younger shinigami a stern glance. “He insisted your orders didn't apply to him, though.”

 

He huffed a laugh under his breath; reaching out, he ruffled Kid's hair, provoking an indignant squawk from his child. “Dad, my _symmetry!_ You've _ruined_ it!” The boy scurried to his feet, pulling out a comb and rushing to the mirror to put his coiffure to rights.

 

“. . . so what did you find out?” Azusa asked once he was out of earshot.

 

Shinigami's golden eyes went back to the unconscious Weapon in his lap. “Marie? I want you to keep one thing in mind when you go after Stein.”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“If he returns here, or if any DWMA staff ever find him, he _will_ have to answer for his crimes.” There was a firmness to his tone that sent chills down the female deathscythes' backs. “Make sure he understands that.”

 

Before she could respond, Shinigami slipped his mask back over his face and lifted the unconscious DeathScythe up into his arms. “Azusa, tell Sid that I want the crime scene results sealed and sent to Gallows Manor immediately. No one is to look at them, and he is not to discuss his findings with anyone, unless he wants me to be _very_ unhappy. Understood?”

 

She blinked, unnerved by the cold stare. “Y- yes, sir. Anything else?”

 

“Send Nygus to the Manor as soon as you can, please. Oh, and would you mind having someone tidy this mess up?” He pivoted en pointe and slid over to where Kid was standing, placing each individual hair in place. “Ready to go home, kiddo?”

 

Kid nudged a hair a millimeter to the right. “I suppose I can finish fixing this there. Is Spirit going to be staying with us?”

 

“Do you mind?”

 

“No, not at all.” He slipped the comb back in his pocket. “Is there anything I can do to help? I think the guest room is set up, unless – he can use my room, if you like.” Kid paused, looking up at his father's Weapon with concern. “Is he going to be all right?”

 

Shinigami sighed and turned back toward the mirror. “. . . I wish I knew.”


	5. Like Marbles on Glass

Chapter 5: Like Marbles on Glass

* * *

 

“Wha- Kid, what's going on? You said you had news on Papa?”

 

The hallways of Gallows Manor were somehow gloomy and foreboding in the dark. The rare crack of thunder rumbled outside, though the clouds likely held no rain for the desert. Inside the Manor, Maka and Soul huddled in an alcove next to Kid; none of them dared raise their voice much above a whisper this late at night, though Maka's outburst had come close. “Keep quiet,” Kid hushed her. “Father specifically told me not to contact you about this.”

 

Soul smirked. “Careful. Black*Star's rubbing off on you.”

 

The young shinigami gave his friend a hint of a grin at that. “Something happened involving Miss Marie and our fathers – it knocked my father out for an hour and yours is still unconscious. I do know it has _something_ to do with whatever happened with Professor Stein. They let that much slip.”

 

“Yeah.” She scuffed her shoe on the floor. “Papa lied about where they'd fought. The professor wrecked the house. Blair was acting really weird, and they sealed it off after Sid looked through it. Sid looked really upset.”

 

A maid came rushing through; an older man with a beard kept pace behind her, swinging a large black bag. Neither seemed to notice the teenagers, as they were too busy discussing something between them. “. . . that must be the doctor Father called in,” Kid mused when they had passed.

 

“Wait, what?” Soul crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought Nygus was the one taking care of all school medical emergencies.”

 

“She's already here. She requested Father bring in a specialist from the city hospital- Maka, _wait!_ ”

 

The normally level-headed young girl had already taken off after the maid and doctor, her shoes making next to no noise on the plush carpet. After a second the boys went after her. “So where're they at, anyway?”

 

“Father put DeathScythe up in his bedroom.”

 

“-wait, Shinigami _sleeps?_ ”

 

“Well, sometimes he likes to take a nap!”

 

And they bickered up the stairs, nearly running into Maka from where she stood in front of heavy double doors. Liz and Patty stood in front of her, clearly not happy.

 

“But that's my papa in there!” Maka was saying, a desperate note in her voice.

 

Liz sighed and waved the maid away. “Shinigami is gonna be pissed you let her know about this, Kid.”

 

“Maka doesn't need to see,” Patty mumbled from the side. “It's not happy.”

 

“That's my problem, not yours.” Kid scowled at her. “What are they talking about in there?”

 

“Mostly? About keeping DeathScythe sedated.” Liz sighed again, rubbing her temples. “And something about divergent wavelengths and soul dissonance and – Kid, Soul, take Maka _home_. We'll let you know if something happens.”

 

“No way. I want to see what they're doing in there!” Maka was perilously close to tears. “I have to see if he's OK! _Please,_ Liz!”

 

The older Thompson sister groaned in defeat. “Damn kids,” she grumbled. “Why the hell do you have to be so- ugh!” She stepped back enough for Maka to look through the crack of the door, placing a hand on the younger girl's shoulder. Patty grasped Maka's hand in support. “I am gonna be in _so much trouble_ for this.”

 

Maka wasn't listening. Comforted by her friends beside her, and behind her, she peered into the dimly-lit room. A shadowed figure lay still on the bed – her father, bare except for a thin blanket over his lower body, breathing unsteadily in deep, restless sleep. Half his torso was covered in ugly, yellow-purple bruising; the doctor was gently palpitating the man's stomach and noting where the man stirred in his sleep in pain. Nygus sat at the deathscythe's feet with a scalpel and long tweezers. As Maka watched, she pulled a long thin shard of something bloody from the bottom of his foot and laid it aside. “Glass,” Nygus said. “Fits what Sid found at the scene.”

 

“Hmm. I want to know why he hid it,” said a third, not-quite-familiar voice. “Doctor?”

 

The physician lifted the blanket on his side, blocking his view from prying eyes. “I'm not surprised, given the history you gave me. I question why you're not reporting it. This is a criminal matter.”

 

A figure in black moved – Maka got a glimpse of a powerful jaw and hawk-sharp eyes that shone like gold. “This happened at the Academy. The DWMA takes care of its own.”

 

“And you can guarantee that whoever did this won't be attacking citydwellers next? Given how many children there are at the school, I don't think your Shinigami would like having a-”

 

“This _will not_ happen again.” The voice was flat and cold, almost inhuman; Maka shivered.

 

The doctor coughed nervously. “I'm required by law to report se-”

 

“And the Reaper is the ultimate law of the city, or are you unfamiliar with Death City's charter?”

 

“. . . fine.” There was a rustling noise, the sound of leather unfolding. “I don't think I can avoid a full exam. There's too much possibility of internal injury.”

 

The figure in black moved again, stepping nearer to the door. “All right, just a-” It stopped; Maka felt the ice-cold gaze sweep over her. “Just a moment.”

 

The doors opened inward before she could backpedal away. A stern face stared down at them, golden eyes under striped black-and-white hair, full lips narrowed into a thin line; the slim figure slipped through to cross his arms over the chest of his expensive suit. “Kid,” the man rumbled, his glare on Maka softening into something akin to pity.

 

“I'm sorry, Father,” Kid said, looking away, “but I thought she had a right to know.”

 

Soul and Maka just stared in disbelief at the human face of the Reaper, who sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between two gloved fingers. “And Liz, really . . . .”

 

“But- that's her dad! And she was about to cry!” Liz whined.

 

Maka studied her shoes; Soul came up behind her in silent support. “Is he going to be all right, Shinigami-sama? Really?” she whispered.

 

Shinigami lowered himself down to one knee and put his hands on Maka's shoulders. “Maka, look at me.” He waited until she did so, giving her an encouraging smile. “I promise you, I'll do everything I can to make sure Spirit recovers from this. It's just going to take time. As long as you don't give up on him, he won't give up on himself – and that's the most important thing.” He held out a pinky finger, shaking it at her; after a moment's hesitation she latched her own around it.

 

Nygus came up behind them, peeking her head through the doors. “Sir? We need your help.”

 

He nodded and stood back up. “Kid, Liz, Patty, why don't you three take Maka and Soul home? You all have school in the morning.” The smile slipped for a moment. “You can see Spirit tomorrow, Maka. I promise. Now, if you'll excuse me-” He waved an elegant hand at them before slipping through the doors; this time when the doors closed, there was the definitive click of a lock engaging.

 

“. . . I can't believe Shinigami looks human under that mask,” Soul finally said, just to break the silence.

 

“Yes, well – he doesn't usually show it to anyone outside of family, or the deathscythes. Either he's got a reason, or he's not paying attention.” Kid's brow furrowed in concern. “I assume you two can keep this bit about his form private? It's not supposed to be publicized.”

 

“I think they can keep a secret.” Liz made a shooing motion with her hands. “C'mon. Let's get you guys home.”

 

Maka hesitated. “But . . . what if I don't get to see Papa tomorrow?”

 

“Not a chance.” Kid placed a gentle hand on her back to guide her along. “One thing I know about my father – he always keeps his promises.”

 

*~*

 

_He awakens to a world of pain._

 

_From the raw, burning ache of his throat to the screaming agony that is his upper back to his swollen and bruised wrists, the knifelike jab of broken ribs shifting with each breath, the constant dull ache in his lower stomach – when he does finally pry open his eyes even_ they _hurt, unable to quite focus unless he strains._

 

_It takes an interminable amount of time before he gathers the energy to even move. He forces himself up onto his forearms, slipping on a wooden floor made sticky with a dark crimson stain, and manages to survey the area he lays in. Shattered glass everywhere, a discarded cigarette, and a voice flashes through his mind-_

 

“You have always tried to run from uncomfortable truths- _”_

 

_Trembling, he digs his fingers into the broken wood of the wall and hauls himself to his feet. Shadows dance across the room, moving as the early rays of sunlight come into the windows, and he cringes away before one can touch him. Something is_ wrong _, something has_ happened _, something that makes his soul go cold inside. He runs a shaky hand down his chest-_

 

“Show me your _mind.”_

 

_His hands touch bare skin where there should be clothing. He is suddenly aware of a pain between his lower thighs, a thickness and foul taste at the back of his throat. When he touches himself, his hand comes back stained with blood and a stiffly drying milky fluid._

 

“Sempai. _”_

 

_And it comes back to him in a flood, overwhelming – the fight, the fruitless struggle, the madman taking pleasure in his pain – taking such pleasure in his weakness, his failure to defend himself, his terror and self-hatred – the_ fear _-_

 

“I can see your _mind_ , sempai! I can see your wings _breaking-”_

 

_Spirit turns and stumbles through the shattered glass minefield (shredding his bare feet on the glass and leaving bloodied footprints the entire way), arms wrapped around himself for protection against the dark, and heads straight for the bathroom. The touch is all over him now, the phantom feel of hands crawling over his flesh, the phantom weight of flesh between his lips choking him (and that singsonging voice, hissing, echoing through his mind –_ sempai sempai **sem~pai~** _)._

 

_He reaches out and turns the showerhead on full blast, as hot as it will go, and sits in the spray while it's still ice-cold. He begins vomiting up the meager contents of his stomach, milky-white mingled with bile that is washed away as soon as he brings it up._

 

_His remaining clothes rip off easily. Lathering up a washcloth, he begins scrubbing at his skin, sobbing, trying to scrub the feel of another's hands off of him. The water is near scalding now, pounding his abused body, reopening the wounds on his back and rinsing the blood from them away. He scrubs at his face, his wrists, and he won't come_ clean _, the filthy dirty feeling won't wash_ away _, and he desperately scrubs between his legs until the skin is raw to get the feeling of shame off of him; even after the soapy lather has turned pink with blood he doesn't stop because he can feel the_ eyes _on him, the fingers pressing, the tearing_ weight _-_

 

“Guess who's been watching this whole time, sempai? _”_

 

_He stops. The fear coalesces into a heavy knot in his stomach._

 

_Maka._

 

“Finish me and I won't make _her_ do it instead. _”_

 

_A stifled cry breaks the silence._

 

_What if Stein broke his word? What if Stein went after Maka after he had – after_ he _had-_

 

_Running, stumbling out of the shower, grasping for clean clothes (ohgod can't let them know can't let_ Maka _know what he did what_ I _did what I've_ become _) and shrugging them on, running, ohgod_ please _-_

  

“ _Maka! Please, not_ Maka- _”_

 

Spirit sat straight up in bed, panting, arm outreached, grasping at the fading vision of his memory. Instantly he felt something warm, soothing and familiar at his side – the soul wavelength of his Meister, sitting beside the bed and watching him with solemn golden eyes. “Spirit, calm down,” he said gently. “It was just a nightmare. Maka's fine. I promise.”

 

The deathscythe took a deep breath, wincing as it expanded his broken ribs, and nodded once; the terror that had seized him from the memory (and he didn't have the heart to tell the truth about that to Shinigami, not now) began to fade. His eyes strayed over the unfamiliar room – he wasn't in his own bed, but laying on a sumptuous king-size feather bed in a suite made for a prince. The room was surprisingly bright, done up in shades of white, teal, and black, with ornate scrollwork on the walls and antique furniture scattered across the room. “Where-” he began.

 

“Kid offered his room up, but I thought mine would be more peaceful. I rarely use it as it is.” Shinigami answered. As unusual as it was to see him in his human form, it was even more unusual to see him in anything outside of his cloak, or formal wear – this morning he was clad in long-sleeve giraffe-print pajamas, hands folded behind his head and impossibly long legs kicked out in front of him. Pink elephant slippers stared back up at them from his feet. “If you need anything from your house, just say so and I'll send Sid to get it. I think he got most everything important out of there, though.”

 

Spirit was quiet for a moment. His eyes dropped to his lap; long red hair fell like a curtain over the side of his face. “So it . . . wasn't all just a bad dream, then,” he muttered, long fingers tangling in the bedspread.

 

There was a sigh from the elder being. “No, Spirit. It wasn't.” A beat, then, “I'm sorry.”

 

“What for? Not your fault.” Under his breath, so low it was almost unintelligible - “It's mine.”

 

Shinigami had to bite back a sharp retort. “. . . how are you feeling? Physically, I mean.”

 

He gave a snort of something that was not quite amusement. “You're kidding, right? I feel like shit. Need to redo my-” His hands patted his chest down, now bare of anything save fresh bandages; a quick peek under the covers told him the only thing he was wearing was a pair of pajama bottoms. Spirit snapped the blanket tight around his waist and shot his Meister a glare, his lame arm covering his chest protectively. “ _Who,_ ” he demanded.

 

The Reaper raised an eyebrow. “Not a very impressive owl imitation you've got there.”

 

The glare turned downright frosty. “Who did this?”

 

“. . . I brought Nygus and a physician in last night to look at your wounds.” Shinigami looked away for a moment, lips pursed in a frown. “The ones you _didn't_ tell us about.”

 

Spirit turned pale; his hands began to tremble. “How _dare_ you?” he snarled, the hurt and the shame blatant on his face. “You swore to me – you _promised_ -”

 

“How dare I care if my friend is hurt? If he's not taking care of himself?” Golden eyes turned flinty, defiant. “You could have had serious internal injuries, Spirit! I wouldn't be doing my duty as your Meister – or as your friend – if I didn't have you checked out! I'm just thankful none of it was serious!”

 

The Weapon poked a bare foot – now bandaged over several lines of thick black stitches – out from under the covers. “How you were walking I'll never know,” Shinigami grumbled. “Did you not stop to think about what _glass in your feet_ could do to you?”

 

“Excuse me if I had _other things_ on my mind.” Normally that would have earned him a smack upside the head, but there was something in his voice, a self-directed bitterness that stilled the Reaper's hand. “So nothing else wrong, huh? You worried over nothing?”

 

“. . . I said there was nothing serious,” he replied reluctantly. Spirit's knuckles turned white where they were clutching the blankets. “You did have some . . . internal injuries.”

 

The deathscythe glanced up sharply. “What do you mean, _did_?”

 

“I don't think now is the-”

 

“Shinigami, what the hell did you mean?!”

 

The sharp panic to his tone, coupled with the lack of respect, snapped the answer out of him. “There's . . . scarring. The bite wound, and down-” He waved a hand at his lap. “The doctor couldn't say how extensive it would be because you're still healing, but-”

 

Spirit folded into himself, drew his knees up – not very far, the motion pulled at his ribs and other things – and crossed his arms atop them, hid his face in the crook of one arm. He barked a short laugh. “Fuck. _Fuck._ Carving up my back wasn't enough, was it? Wasn't enough to m- mark me _one_ way, h- he had to-”

 

Shinigami reached out and laid pale fingers on the bedspread, almost but not quite touching his weapon partner's knee; his face fell when the other man flinched away. “Spirit-”

 

A knock on the door interrupted him. Liz Thompson stuck her head around the doorframe, cowgirl hat hanging off her shoulders. “Hey, Shinigami-sama, breakfast's ready- oh, DeathScythe! You're up!” She blinked nervously when the former looked to her; the deathscythe turned away in an almost shy gesture. “Um, I'm interrupting, aren't I?”

 

“It's fine. I'll be down in a few minutes. Don't wait on me.”

 

Liz nodded, eyes lingering on the bandaged figure sitting abed, and took her leave. “Don't need to make Kid wait,” Spirit mumbled roughly when she had left.

 

“Spirit-”

 

DeathScythe's wavelength shoved at him, blindly pushing him away. “Go. _Away_.”

 

Shinigami began to protest; the younger man clutched at his knees, trying to hide the trembling of his hands, the way his shoulders were shaking. Trying to hide the physical signs of an impending breakdown, when the other could see his soul fraying at the edges – and here in the physical world, without the perfect understanding of souls communicating together, any attempt to help him could just hurt him further.

 

The Reaper could hardly remember feeling quite this helpless before.

 

“All right,” he relented. “Take your time. Your things are in the nightstand next to the bed; come downstairs when you feel up to it. Patty isn't the sharpest crayon in the box, but she's a wonderful cook when she puts her mind to it.”

 

One hand stole out and ran long fingers through his Weapon's cherry-red hair before he stole out, closing the door on the sound of quiet tears.

 

*~*

 

“ _Sem~pai~”_

 

_There is so much power in that one word, power Stein never knew existed until now, tension and pleasure wringing his mind into hazy scarlet knots. The power of_ fear _, the power of_ breaking _; he hisses it and the slim body beneath him clenches a little tighter, struggles a little harder. Raw power, dominance in six little letters (sempai MY sempai my WEAPON how dare he how DARE he leave me), and it's_ his _body that is coiling up tight,_ his _voice dragging the fear out,_ his _mind flashing white in absolute pleasure-_

 

“Snap out of it, Stein! What would M- _”_

 

_Static roars through his head._

 

**No.**

 

_He pulls the traitor to his knees (he was my Weapon first MINE my EXPERIMENT how dare he try to LEAVE ME) and makes him open his eyes, makes him acknowledge the root of his power – the fear_ has _to be there, the fear he is_ owed

 

_(“I'm not scared of you anymore!” he'd said then, and why had that made him feel so relieved?)_

 

_and the sight of him on his knees reawakens that animal instinct, the hissing at the back of his mind, the ache in his lower belly that has yet to be sated._ Fear me _, the insanity screams as he forces his ex-partner's lips apart,_ worship me, for I will take your wings of courage and give you **fear** to soar with.

 

_Spirit sobs. The little blue jewel that is his soul cracks in twain, shards scattering._

 

And you will **fly**.

 

_Choking, sobbing-_

 

“ _ **Please.** ”_

 

_The desperation in that one word cuts through Stein's Madness like a knife. The red fog thins out; he looks down at his feet, grey eyes wide and uncomprehending._

 

_Tears filling empty sky-blue eyes, spilling down pale, hollow cheeks. White spilling from between split lips. And blood, so much blood, red splashed over the floor and the walls, oozing from open wounds and puddling on the floor. Blood-dampened cherry-red hair, now almost black, sticking to the back of his neck as he bows at his feet._

 

_Begging._

 

_Begging to spare his daughter, begging for the pain to stop-_

 

_The blood between his thighs._

 

_The_ white _-_

 

“ _What would Marie think?”_

 

_Marie_

 

_**M a Ri E** _

 

_Marie is_

 

_dead /_ alive

 

_**D E A D** _

 

_and Sempai is_

 

_(so much fear ohgod the fear the red the_ white _what have I done what have I **done** )_

 

_broken_

 

_little broken thing_

 

_at his feet_

 

_because_

 

_of_

 

_**him** _

 

_A crazed little laugh escapes Stein's lips._

 

“ _. . ._ There _it is.”_

 

_One Soul Force later, and the broken little thing is unconscious, barely breathing. Stein stands to his full height and stuff himself back into his pants, zips them shut in stiff, jerky little movements. The belt he was wearing lays forgotten at his feet. He turns and his reflection stares back at him in a mirror on the wall, eyes mad and uneven, face streaked red and glasses askew._

 

_Behind him stands the specter of Marie._

 

_Dead, dead Marie, head lolling on a broken neck, and in her one visible eye is disappointment and accusation._

 

“ _Marie . . . ?”_

 

_Dead little Marie, in every reflective surface. Staring. Condemning._

 

“ _It's not what you think-”_

 

_She points down (don't look at it don't look at what I've done I didn't I didn't mean to) and mouths a silent word. Static roars in his ears, buzzes in his skull. Her hand reaches through the mirror for his throat._

 

“ _No!”_

 

_He puts a fist through the glass._

 

“ _Don't_ look _at me like that!”_

 

_She speaks in silence again. Another mirror shatters._

 

“ _I didn't_ mean _to-”_

 

_Crack._

 

“ _ **STOP STARING AT ME!** ”_

 

_Crack. Crack. Crack._

 

Stein lit up a cigarette with shaking hands. Around him, the shattered remains of what had been a mirror lay scattered; Medusa sat beside him, twirling a razor-sharp shard in her hands. He took a long drag and blew out the smoke into the air. “Marie keeps looking at me.”

 

“She's dead, Stein.” The witch tossed the glass fragment aside, using the grown man as an oversized pillow.

 

He didn't seem to notice – or if he noticed, he didn't care. It was difficult to gauge his emotions normally, much less when he was enraptured with Madness like now. “She's not staying dead.” He took another hit of his cigarette, blowing out skull-shaped clouds of smoke. “I wonder what it would be like to dissect her soul.”

 

She smiled, closing her eyes. “Maybe one day you'll get to find out.”

 

*~*

 

“. . . Papa?”

 

It was mid-afternoon; Spirit was, on doctor's recommendation, resting for the day at Gallows Manor instead of staying at his Meister's side at the Academy. After the rather disastrous morning, he had gotten himself dressed in the casualwear Sid had salvaged from his house and wandered down to the mansion's library. (A room with a television had been his first target, until the news broadcast came on - “Eight days after an attack that left a deathscythe badly wounded, the search has been called off for acclaimed researcher and Meister Franken Stein-” was as much as he could bear to listen to before fleeing.)

 

Maka found him sitting in the same place he had started- curled up into the side of an oversized armchair, back nestled into half a dozen pillows piled into the corner and his bandaged feet dangling off the arm of the chair. A thick book – Nordic mythology and legends, from the title – was propped up in his lap. “Papa? Are – are you busy?”

 

Spirit looked up, a hesitant smile tugging at his lips. “Never too busy for my Maka,” he answered. He set the book aside and sat up straighter, tugging his shirt back down to cover his bandages. “Are classes done already?”

 

“I got permission from Shinigami-sama to skip last period.” Her eyes strayed to his feet, the image of bloody footprints overlaying in her mind; her father tucked them away sheepishly. “Do they hurt? I mean . . . we saw . . . .” She swallowed hard. He tilted his head in confusion – and not a little dread. “Blair and Soul and I – we're the ones who found the house like it was. And I saw them taking the glass out of your feet and I know they brought in a doctor from outside and – are you really going to be OK? Why did you lie to everyone before? What happened?”

 

There was a moment's silence. Maka's father was normally effusive and hyper to the point of being ridiculous; questions like those should have brought him to hysterics, should have made him rush to reassure her that everything was fine and that he was in perfect shape, and perhaps to even crow over the fact that she was worrying over him. The fact that he was quiet – and that he was taking her concerns seriously – was a sure sign that something was deeply wrong with him.

 

“. . . what did Blair tell you?”

 

Maka blinked. “She – she said the house was poison and made us leave. She wouldn't tell us anything other than that. Nobody's telling us anything, except that the house is where you two fought.”

 

Spirit sighed in relief, resting his head in one hand. “Thank God,” he muttered under his breath.

 

“Papa?”

 

The deathscythe looked up at his daughter, managing a weak smile. “I'm sorry to have made you worry, Maka. I've caused you a lot of trouble over the years, haven't I?” He tilted his head back; the yellowing bruises around his throat were made all the more obvious in the sunlight from the library windows. “It's nothing that won't heal. I'll be right as rain in no time, you'll see.”

 

“But . . . .” She twiddled her thumbs before her, frowning. It was too pat an answer, too rehearsed, and he looked so small and vulnerable and broken there before her. He didn't believe his own words; why should she? “Why didn't you tell everyone the truth up front, then?”

 

“. . . I was ashamed.” That had the ring of truth, and the bitter note in his voice made Maka stare up at him. His faded blue eyes were focused straight ahead now. “I'm a deathscythe. No, I'm _the_ DeathScythe. I'm supposed to be the strongest of all Weapons, and I let a single Meister take me down-” Spirit made a choking noise and turned away.

 

It had been a long time since Maka had voluntarily hugged her father, but she did so now, sitting on the edge of the chair next to him and putting her arms around his waist. She could feel the ridges of the wounds on his back, the thick healing scars where Stein had carved fear into his flesh; Spirit paused for only a second before wrapping his arms around her and hugging her tight. Normally, although she'd never admit it, being held by her father like this would make her feel safe; now she could feel his trembling, smell the antiseptic and blood on his skin.

 

She closed her eyes, examining the cracked, tattered orb that was her father's battered soul for a moment before beginning to cry.

 

“Hey, hey, everything's all right!” Spirit soothed, rubbing a gentle hand up and down her back. “Maka, don't cry – don't pay any attention to me, I'm fine, I promise! Shhh, it's okay.”

 

But it _wasn't_ okay, and she could feel it, and she shook her head against his chest. “Crona's in a cell and Professor Stein's gone-” and it was impossible to miss how her father flinched when she said that name- “and you're hurt and-” _And you're not telling the truth_ , she wanted to say, but couldn't. She hiccuped a sob; a hand brushed the tears away from her cheek.

 

“It's going to be okay.” Spirit closed his eyes, laying his cheek atop his daughter's head. “I promise, everything's going to be okay.”

 

In his heart, he prayed he wasn't making promises he couldn't keep.


	6. A Broken Mirror

Chapter 6: A Broken Mirror

 

Sid Barrett, resident zombie and teacher at the DWMA, had grown accustomed to long days and sleepless nights – he no longer needed to sleep, after all. This evening, however, with crime scene photographs spread out around him, several items put aside in evidence bags along the wall, and a sheaf of reports on his desk, he found himself missing the escape from work a nap would bring.

 

Then again, if he _could_ sleep, he was fairly certain he would just have nightmares.

 

That was just the kind of man he used to be.

 

One clear plastic bag lay out the desk; in it was a blunted scalpel, so coated in dried blood it looked rusted. Fingerprints were practically embossed in the black. Stein's fingerprints – they were a ten-point match. On the floor, in another bag, was a bloodied leather belt sized to fit Stein, with those same fingerprints on it.

 

Under the bagged scalpel, a photograph of the bite wound on DeathScythe's upper thigh. A match to Stein's dental records.

 

Across from them, DNA profiles from semen samples taken at the scene. One was inconclusive, as they didn't have any of Stein's DNA on file. The other profile was _Spirit's_ , which brought an entirely new level of unpleasantness to the case.

 

Sid groaned and let his head thunk against the wood of the desk.

 

“You sound cheerful.” Mira Nygus looked at him from the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Any reason you're trying to beat your brains back in, or is this just a pity party?”

 

He groaned and pushed himself back up. “Nah, just tired. How're you doing?”

 

“As well as can be expected.” She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her and falling against it before venting her true feelings. “Which is to say, horrible. I hate all this secretive bullshit. I had to lie to Azusa's face today about why we pulled in a city doctor for DeathScythe last night – and you _know_ how hard it is to lie to her, she's like a human lie detector! I don't even know how she found out about that!” She huffed a sigh. “You know Shinigami-sama isn't even telling the other deathscythes what really happened to him?”

 

Sid glanced at her. “Why would he? We're getting ready to fight Ashura soon. They're already pretty spooked; DeathScythe's stronger than any of them, and seeing him defeated isn't helping their morale. Do you really think now is a good time to tell them the truth?”

 

“I think Marie and Crona at least deserve to know that they're running after a _rapist_ , yeah!” Nygus half-shouted, waving her arms in the air. “Spirit's _broken_ , Sid! I've seen it with my own eyes! You didn't have to pick glass out of his feet or stitch up his back because his best friend used him as a message board, or watch a doctor do a _rape exam_ on one of your schoolmates!” There was real concern in her voice, enough to make Sid push back away from his desk and turn towards her. “I don't want to be responsible for those two going out after that lunatic and coming back _raped_ or _broken_ or in a _body bag_!”

 

“You think I like it any better than you do?!” The zombie growled low in his chest. “Shinigami-sama tried to talk her out of it. So did Azusa. Hell, even I gave it a go. She wouldn't hear of it – you know she accused us of not caring about _Stein's_ feelings in all of this?” He laughed at the stupefied look Nygus gave him. “Yeah, that was my reaction too. Look, Marie is a deathscythe; Crona has the demon sword and the black blood. And Marie isn't completely stupid, she _knows_ Stein is dangerous!” He sighed heavily. “Shinigami-sama must have his reasons. Doubting him now-”

 

Nygus huffed. “She's going up against her Meister, Sid! Don't you get it?”

 

Sid looked away guiltily.

 

The medic sank down to sit on the floor, resting her head against the door. “You Meisters tend to forget about it all the time, but Weapons? We can't. 'A Weapon must be ready at all times to die for his Meister's sake. A Weapon is nearly useless without a Meister to wield him.' We're trained from the start to work with our Meister, to look out for them, to obey and sacrifice – have you ever heard of a Weapon turning on his Meister?”

 

Sid shook his head, looking at his Weapon partner with a mixture of regret and pity. “Marie should be all right – she and Stein weren't partnered for long,” he ventured.

 

“Except she's head-over-heels in love with him,” she retorted.

 

“There is that,” he conceded. They fell silent for several long moments, surrounded by the evidence of pain, before Sid laughed again, a humorless grin spreading on his grey face.

 

“You know what, Mira? I hate this secretive bullshit too. That's not the kind of man I am.”

 

*~*

 

The crescent moon was high in the night sky, endlessly drooling blood from its manic grin, when Spirit finally laid back in his loaned bed to try and sleep. He had tried to give it back to Shinigami, feeling incredibly awkward about kicking his Meister out of his own room, but the older being would have none of it. Kid and the Thompson sisters treated him like an honored guest – well, Kid and Liz did, anyway; Patty was her normal self up until bedtime, when she'd pressed a stuffed giraffe into his arms and dashed off. Apparently Mr. Giraffe was supposed to help him sleep.

 

Mr. Giraffe was doing a pretty lousy job of it.

 

Actually, Mr. Giraffe, with his looney grin and beady eyes, was stuffed under a chair where Spirit couldn't see him. (His initial reaction had been to throw the ugly thing as far away as he could, but he couldn't bring himself to do that and hurt Patty's feelings.) There was nothing that could entice him to sleeping – sleep brought nightmares, and he would do anything to avoid the dreams, the replaying memories. It was bad enough he had to suffer through them during the day, but there was no relief at night.

 

So he sat back and stared at the skies, the ceiling, anything, until his eyelids grew heavy and-

 

*~*

 

-the concrete was cold under his feet, bleak and grey; the walls and ceiling were made of the same, cracked and aged and bitterly cold. He went to clutch his pajamas around him and found himself clothed in tattered boxers stained with blood, multicolor bruises and filthy bandages around his torso and feet. Fluids stained his inner thighs, the corners of his lips; his hair was matted and tangled. “Where-” he began in fright, instinctively drawing his limbs inward for protection. His eyes darted around the room, desperate for something familiar.

 

A projector sat in the center of the room.

 

On the other side reclined a red Wolf, one eye of silver and one of gold; the two stared at each other for a moment before he looked away.

 

_Hello again_ , his Fear said, tilting its muzzle curiously. _I must admit, I wasn't expecting to see you back here so soon. Or at all._

 

Spirit shivered. “Wh- how the hell did I get here?”

 

It flicked an ear, staring at him with that same unblinking gaze. The fur around its golden eye had faded from a rich blue to a reddish-purple. _Rather bleak, isn't it?_ Its voice was casual, as if commenting on the weather. _I must admit, you fit the décor perfectly._

 

He flushed and turned away. “Stop staring at me like that,” he snapped, wrapping his arms around himself.

 

_I'm only looking at you the way you_ want _me to_ , it said, crossing its paws one over the other.

 

“I don't _want_ you to look at me at all!”

 

_Now, now. You can lie to the Reaper; you can lie to your daughter._ The Wolf's fangs lifted in an approximation of a smile. _But you cannot lie to yourself, Spirit._

 

The man glanced back over his shoulder to stare at the Wolf. “. . . you're Fear, aren't you?” he asked, a note of worry in his voice. “Shinigami-sama said you were my Fear.”

 

_Well, I_ am _making you afraid, am I not?_

 

Spirit's faded blue eyes narrowed in anger. “If you're a part of me, then you should be doing what I want you to do. Like going away or shutting your eyes or getting me some damn _clothes_.”

 

There was silence in the Room for a moment before an unearthly series of howling barks came from the Wolf; it was _laughing_ at him. _Just as you here are a reflection of what you think you are, I am a reflection of your secret heart, your true desires._ Spirit looked down at himself, a frown creasing his brow. _You see yourself as beaten, dirty, a creature most foul, and so you appear._

 

“I don't-”

 

_And I stare at you and your weakness and shame because you want your colleagues to see it,_ the beast continued, steamrollering over his protests. _You_ hate _yourself. You_ want _them to see how weak and disgusting you are, how low you've sunk, how easily you let yourself become a cocksucking whore._

 

The deathscythe flinched. He ducked his head low, humiliated, fingers digging into his arms. “Shut the hell _up_ ,” he swore, his voice unsteady. “I didn't _let_ -”

 

_But don't you_ want _to remember how easily he spread your legs?_

 

The projector whirred into life between them. Spirit took a half-step back; the Wolf rose to its paws, towering over him. _Remember how you thought you'd_ die _when he entered you?_

 

“I _said_ shut-”

 

_Remember how it tasted when he came in your mouth?_

 

It stepped forward again, nose-to-nose with the trembling human.

 

_Or how about_ you _, hmm?_ The Wolf's voice dripped with an amused sort of revulsion. _How you just_ laid _there? Just let him have his way with you? Never made a move to stop him?_

 

“I _couldn't!_ ” he screamed in the Wolf's face. “I tried to stop him _and I couldn't!_ I never _could-_ ”

 

_-a cutting pain, the scent of ether, a splash of crimson-_

 

The Wolf's ears perked up even as the words caught in Spirit's throat and died off. _Oh? Never could what?_

 

“Nothing.” His voice was flat, eyes flashing with a sudden anger.

 

_Oh, I don't think that was nothing._ The beast nodded back over its shoulder; where before the projector had been sitting by itself there was now a pile of moldering old cardboard boxes piled around it. The tape that kept the boxes closed was yellowed and cracking, easily broken. _I think that was very much a something._ Its fangs seemed to grow longer in hungry anticipation. _Why don't we see what._

 

Scythe blades crossed in front of its snout. “Why don't we not and say we did?” the deathscythe shot back.

 

The Wolf tilted its head. _Are you serious? Do you think you can intimidate me here, with those? Do you think you can_ stop _me?_

 

“You know, I'm getting really sick of you.” Spirit pressed forward, the blades sinking into the creature's fur until they pressed flesh. Its fur began to ripple blue where his blades touched it. “I don't _care_ what's in there. Anything you're interested in has got to be bad news, and I want no part of it, you got me?”

 

_You don't even know what's in there, do you?_ Fake pity oozed from its voice. _You don't remember._

 

“Shut up!” He stared his Fear in the eyes, almost snarling. “Just – fucking – _stop it_ already! I am _sick_ of you dragging me down! I have too many people depending on me to keep falling for your stupid mind games!”

 

_You really think they're counting on_ you _? A broken Weapon?_ It smirked at the furious look he shot him. _You probably couldn't be used to trim an azalea bush, and you think you can help fight against something as strong as the Kishin?_

 

“I have to,” he breathed, his blades shaking in fury. “I have to do _something_ to protect my daughter! To protect my Meister – it doesn't matter if I don't come back, there's a school full of children here that need people to protect them! If I can at least do something toward that-”

 

_Of course. Because you protected yourself so well against Stein._

 

“Don't say that name-”

 

The Wolf pressed forward again, pushing the scythe blades apart. _Come, now. Surely you're not afraid of a little_ name _, are you – sempai?_

 

His breath caught in his throat.

 

_I can see it in your eyes. Sem~pai~. It_ terrifies _you, doesn't it?_

 

The blades snapped back into his body.

 

_It_ does _. How delicious. You used to take pride in being his senior. And now it's just a pet name for a pet whore._

 

He began to tremble as the beast licked its chops.

 

_He called you that the whole time he was fucking you, didn't he?_ It set its jaw atop his shoulder, crooning in his ear. _Sem~pai~, sem~pai~. Why are you shaking so, sem~pai~? Does it remind you of being underneath him? His hands touching you?_

 

Spirit shoved the Wolf's muzzle away, stumbling back. His hands were fading, becoming translucent. “Stop-”

 

It leered at him, placing a heavy paw on his chest, claws dragging down to just above his pelvic bone. The claws seemed to sink through him, as though he were incorporeal. _What happened while you were unconscious, sempai? Did he rut you like an animal again? Just think of how many times, how many_ ways _he could have had that mouth or ass of yours. What kind of scars did he leave to mark you?_

 

Its mismatched eyes bore into his faded blue ones; he felt himself fading away even as the Wolf spoke, its final words echoing in his heart long after he had slipped out of the dream.

 

_What_ else _did he do? Do you even know, sempai?_

 

_Do you even_ know _?_

 

*~*

 

“A remedial class? Really?”

 

The library at Gallows Manor had been temporarily transformed; chairs and desks were pushed to the sides, making a wide open area in the center of the room. Spirit, back in old jogging pants and a t-shirt (and a borrowed pair of plush panda slippers to cushion his battered feet), sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, sulking. Shinigami, in his human form, looked decidedly more elegant than usual in comparison, his suit and cravat all perfectly aligned. “I wouldn't call it a remedial class. It's something they do with the young NOT students to help them adjust to each other. I thought that, since we're having some issues, it might help to give it a try.”

 

The deathscythe heaved a sigh. “Fine. But couldn't we have just used the Death Room or a training room at the Academy? Why here?”

 

“I can lock the doors here, for one.” Shinigami leaned against a desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought you might want some privacy, and technically, you're still supposed to be resting. I don't need Nygus jumping down my throat because I'm not keeping you bedridden.”

 

“Point taken.” He sat back, trying to look relaxed and failing miserably. “So . . . what kind of exercise is this, exactly?”

 

The Reaper grinned and whisked his way to an antique phonograph. “I'm glad you asked, Spirit. Do you have a music preference? I'm not very good with modern dancing, but I'm quite good with ballroom. And the tango.”

 

Spirit stared at his Meister. “Our exercise. Is dancing.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Together.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Dancing. Together.”

 

“. . . yes?”

 

“. . . did someone put you up to this, or has the Madness finally gotten to you?”

 

Shinigami groaned and rolled his eyes. “It's a trust-building exercise, not a game!” The music began to play, an uptempo swing beat; the elder being held out his hand. “I know it's difficult for you to be in close proximity with anyone right now. I just thought this might help.”

 

Spirit bit his lower lip for a moment. Embarrassment warred with guilt on his features before he took the proferred hand. “Fine.” He shot the other a challenging look. “But if I have to do this, I get to lead.”

 

“I had planned for you to.” The taller man grinned, placing his free hand very lightly (and very high up) on Spirit's uninjured side. “Shall we?”

 

“That's my line!”

 

And so they began. DeathScythe was a fairly accomplished dancer himself, but his sore feet and his obvious discomfort at being touched (and at being isolated with another person) made him awkward. The box step was for beginners, but it was a simple rhythm, and one they fell into easily enough. “I still think this is ridiculous,” the younger man grumbled under his breath after a few minutes of shuffling movement.

 

“If it was going to be too difficult for you to do,” Shinigami replied as they turned, “you should have just said so. I forget you're not as proficient as I am.”

 

“Whoa, hold up.” Spirit scowled and signaled a switch in tempo, pushing the other backward into a quicker Viennese waltz. “ _You're_ the one who insisted I take dance lessons in the first place – so you wouldn't have to dance with emissaries when they came to Death City!” Back, step, step, turn; he was beginning to move more naturally instead of forcing himself to endure being touched by his Meister. “And I seem to remember a certain Queen being rather impressed by my skill, thank you very much!”

 

The Reaper smirked as he let himself be guided backward. “Qatar has a Sheikha, not a Queen. Though I _suppose_ I'll admit she enjoyed herself. A little bit.”

 

“Hah! Score one for the deathscythe!”

 

“Now, her husband was a whole other matter . . . .”

 

The deathscythe rolled his eyes as he transitioned them with the music into a smooth, slow foxtrot. “Oh God, he was _that_ one, wasn't he? How many times did we apologize over that snafu? Twenty? Thirty?”

 

“Thirty-three times over a span of four and a half months, and you're _still_ not allowed within twenty kilometers of the country's borders.” Shinigami threw his head back and laughed, a warm, rich sound. After a moment Spirit joined in, resting his head on his Meister's shoulder and chuckling.

 

“I've caused you a hell of a lot of trouble, haven't I, Shinigami-sama?” he murmured once the laughter died down.

 

“You've kept things exciting,” the older man chuckled. “Transform, Spirit.”

 

The tone was light, but the command was undeniably there; instinct kicked in before DeathScythe could process what had been said. The hilt of the scythe fell neatly into Shinigami's gloved hands, a little too heavy and warm to be comfortable – but _so_ much closer to normal than it had been that the Reaper couldn't help but give a happy little hum of excitement.

 

Spirit's voice wavered from inside the scythe. “. . . it's _working_.”

 

“You sound surprised.” Shinigami spun the Weapon between his fingers in a well-practiced movement, relishing the feel of the staff in his hands. The blade stopped just inches from the floor; he hefted the scythe back up to stare at it, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Did you really think we couldn't do it?”

 

“Well . . . .” The man's reflection looked away, uncomfortably naked before his Meister's gaze. “You know what they say. Hope in one hand . . . .”

 

He shook his head. “I never gave up hope in you, Spirit,” he said plainly. “I knew you wouldn't let your fears defeat you.”

 

Spirit flinched; the deathscythe dissolved back into his human form to stand before the other man. “Is something bothering you?” Shinigami asked.

 

“. . . you said you had a doctor look me over the other night.”

 

“Yes? What about it?”

 

The music had by now stopped; he shuffled over to a nearby table and sat atop it, his slippered feet swinging childishly. “What did he say?”

 

The other man tilted his head, golden eyes flickering. “You took a lot of damage in that fight, Spirit. It's a miracle you didn't develop peritonitis or a punctured lung.”

 

“No, not – I mean, when I was unconscious . . . did – did _he_ . . . I . . . .” Growling in frustration, he buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes.

 

Shinigami waited patiently, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

 

It took a few seconds for him to gather the courage to continue. “You told me there was . . . scarring.” Spirit swallowed hard. His voice dropped, became hesitant and timid. “What . . . how much . . . what caused the . . . ?” He trailed off.

 

Shinigami's lips set into a grim line. “Spirit, have you not seen the scars?”

 

“I can't exactly see my own back without a couple of mirrors.”

 

“. . . I'm not talking about the ones on your back. Do you not look at yourself when you bathe? Your body, your . . . male regions?” Had the situation not been so serious, he would have blushed at the mentioning.

 

Spirit cowered down, shaking his head.

 

“Have you looked at yourself at _all_ since . . . ?”

 

Another shake in the negative.

 

“. . . you have _bathed_ , haven't you?”

 

A pause, before Spirit flipped Shinigami the middle finger – a hopeful, if rather rude, sign. The older being sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to push away the headache trying to form. “Come on,” he said gently. “I think you need to take a look.”

 

*~*

 

“Did you pack a compass?”

 

“And a map, and an atlas. And a spare compass. Really, I won't get lost.”

 

Nygus shrugged, frowning. Marie was still tidying the Patchwork Laboratory, gathering last-minute items to take with her on her journey. “Azusa said she'd be by in a few hours, by the way. She's had to take over for Shinigami-sama again.”

 

“He's staying at the Manor again?” She shot the other Weapon a glance. “With Spirit?”

 

“Yup.”

 

Marie made a little non-committal noise in the back of her throat. “Why are you really here, Nygus?”

 

She blinked. “Huh?”

 

“I know everyone thinks I'm crazy for going after Stein after what happened.” The young blonde deathscythe turned to face her, arms folded across her chest.

 

“. . . the thought's crossed my mind, yeah,” she admitted.

 

The younger woman shrugged as if she had been expecting that answer. “Stein's always had issues with Madness. This has been so hard on him – Spirit and I both had been trying our best to keep it under control for his sake.”

 

“Except your wavelength was skewed by that witch and her puppet.”

 

Marie nodded with a scowl. “Except for Medusa and Crona, yes. But he's been fighting all his life against it, and no one seems to realize how _hard_ that's had to be for him! Somewhere inside him, I know he's still fighting it, and I know he feels _horrible_ about what he did to Spirit, but nobody's willing to go to bat for him!” She turned back to the bookshelf, pulling down a thin hardcover. “You'd think Spirit would be more understanding given that they were partners-”

 

Nygus bit her tongue hard enough to taste blood. “I think you're forgetting that Stein used to carve Spirit up in his sleep when they were partners, too,” she said when she could manage to keep the anger out of her voice.

 

“. . . yeah. I know. But Spirit forgave him that.” She put the book back, chose another. “I don't know why he's holding a grudge this time. Or why Shinigami-sama is so angry. I wish I knew what was going on.”

 

“I don't think anyone knows what Shinigami-sama's thinking,” Nygus said. She pushed herself up from the couch and pulled a thin envelope out from a pants pocket. “Look, do me a favor, will you? When you two get out of the city limits, will you read this?”

 

“Well, sure,” Marie said, surprised. She took the envelope and slid it between the pages of the book she held in her hands. “What's in it? Some big secret?”

 

“. . . just promise me you'll wait until you're outside of the city limits before you read it.” Though they were never close friends, Nygus gave the deathscythe a quick hug. “And please, _be careful_.”

 

*~*

 

The scars on his back were not as bad as he had first feared.

 

Granted, they were still horrendous to look at – jagged, irregular letters F E A R carved in raised and puckered scars into his upper back, lined in scabs and black stitches – but given time they would heal into something that wouldn't show through a sweatshirt. They would probably be fairly prominent in anything _thinner_ than that, but as long as Spirit had some kind of option to hide them he would be all right. The last stroke on the R still tingled; Shinigami had traced a finger over it, a pain in his golden gaze Spirit had rarely ever seen before and never wanted to see again.

 

(At least it hadn't been pity. Sadness he could take; tears and hurt and fury; _anything_ but pity.)

 

Now, fresh out of the shower, Shinigami standing on the other side of the bathroom door where he could listen and speak but not see, Spirit stood in front of the full-length mirror with a towel around his waist and truly looked at himself.

 

The bruises were yellowing; the marks around his wrists were almost faded, the ligature mark around his neck still an ugly line of purple and green fading to yellow. His too-prominent-to-be-healthy ribs were turning various vivid shades of green and yellow around the blue and purple ( _you fit the décor perfectly_ , the Wolf had said, and it had been right). Above his jutting hips he could see the fading dots that marked handprints, crescent scabs where fingernails had dug in and drawn blood. Healing scrapes marred his knees from kneeling in broken glass. Just under the edge of the towel, he could see the beginning of toothprints in a hellish violet-blue, high on the inside of his thigh.

 

“Spirit?” came the familiar voice from beyond the door, laced with concern. “Is everything okay?”

 

He took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said, and let the towel around his waist drop to the floor.

 

They dotted him in a vague zigzag pattern. Five perfect little burn circles clustered around the base of his genitals, marked atop yellowed, incisor-shaped bruises. Cigarette burns. Bite wounds. Three more circular burns along the shaft of his penis. Jagged cuts made by jagged fingernails all along there, between his thighs and God only knew where else-

 

-and he remembered parts of it, didn't he? Little snippets of it, broken bits on an old film reel, seen through a thick fog _(it's waiting the Wolf is waiting it's watching it knows it_ _ **knows**_ _)-_

 

“Spirit?”

 

The deathscythe slammed the palms of his hands into his eyes, grinding them in until stars bloomed behind them, forcing the tears and the terror back.

 

“Spirit, are you all right?”

 

He stumbled backwards, the backs of his legs hitting the edge of a bench; he sat down hard, gracelessly curling up into a protective ball over his knees and trembling. They were there and _so ugly_ , disfiguring, scars that would never fade away, an intimate reminder of _what_ had happened and _how_ and even if he was ever able to get over his own stupid fears he would _never_ be able to face another partner again, not without showing them the proof of what he was now-

 

-and what made it all worse was he didn't even know-

 

“ _Why?!_ ”

 

The door creaked open at the scream. Footsteps raced toward him. A fresh towel was tucked back around his waist; gentle hands placed something warm and dry and oh-so-familiar around his shoulders. “Shh. Easy now.”

 

Spirit turned his head toward the voice; Shinigami knelt at his feet, tucking his jacket – his cloak, now, having let it morph back to its original state – around his Weapon partner to protect his modesty. He took the corner of it and made to wipe at his face, but was pushed away. “Spirit-”

 

“I _trusted_ that son of a bitch! He was my friend! He was my _Meister!_ ” Spirit slammed a fist into the wall; the tile cracked with the force of the blow. “Why did he do this? Why _me?!_ I didn't-”

 

He got to his feet, clutching the tattered old cloak around him, and stormed away, stopping in the middle of the room. “I tried to help him. I _did._ I thought I was . . . . What did I do _wrong?_ Where did I _screw up?_ ”

 

Shinigami looked up at him, his features open in shock. “Spirit, where would you even _get_ the idea-”

 

“You've seen them, haven't you? The scars?” The older man nodded. “Then you know. You _know_ it wasn't just once. Once would have been enough, but no.” Spirit began pacing, his fingers kneading the ethereal fabric of the Reaper's cloak. The thoughts tumbled from his lips almost faster than he could speak them; his voice grew hoarse with fury. “I can remember bits and pieces of it. He had to have another turn. Or two or three, hell, why not? It wasn't like I was _stopping_ him!”

 

“Spirit, that's _enough!_ ”

 

The whipcrack of Shinigami's voice, harsh and commanding, stopped the redhead in his tracks. He looked down at his Meister, exhaustion underlining his hazy blue eyes, then turned his face away before the light could betray the dampness on his cheeks. “It's _not_ enough!” he shouted back, his voice quivering. “S- s- _Stein –_ he broke into my home, waited for me, a- and he-”

 

He hesitated, unable to voice the word. “He raped you,” the elder said quietly. “And you couldn't stop him.”

 

Spirit's legs gave out from under him; he collapsed into a heap of long limbs and tattered cloth on the slick tile floor. “ _You think I don't know that?!_ ” he nearly shrieked. “I did _everything_ you asked me to, I tried to be the Weapon partner he needed, I tried to help him control his Madness- why did he _do_ it? _Why?!_ ” The tears came then; he was too tired to keep holding them back. “You've got to tell me, because _I don't know!_ ”

 

“Oh, Spirit,” Shinigami breathed. The Reaper crossed the floor on hand and knee, sitting before him in the damp. He stripped off his gloves and cupped his Weapon's face in his bare hands, thumbs wiping the tears away as fast as they came. Spirit leaned into the touch, quiet sobs shaking his frame. “You have to ask the one question I don't have an answer for.”

 

*~*

 

Marie hefted the pack up on her shoulder, looking back at Crona. “Don't dawdle. We've got a lot of ground to cover.”

 

Crona could only nod, scurrying in the sand to catch up with her. Behind them, Death City was rapidly dwindling, becoming just a small dot in the distance.

 

In the bottom of Marie's pack, an envelope lay sealed inside a book, forgotten.

 


	7. Remember Standing On A Broken Field

Maka Albarn stormed into class with her head low over her books; her partner Soul trailed behind, sullen and quiet. “Something wrong?” Liz Thompson asked as the scythemeister sat down. “You look like you're about to explode.”

 

“Just the usual,” Soul piped up, kicking back in his seat. “The guards wouldn't let Maka in to see Crona, and the DWMA rumor mill is going nice and steady. Some things never change.”

 

Maka slumped even further down in her chair.

 

Rumors had been flying fast and thick ever since the night Stein attacked her father; normally such things died down after a time and new topics took their place. This time, however, new details kept popping up, new questions, new theories – the fact that the local news had picked up on her father's house being marked off as a crime scene had not helped, nor had the fact that the Academy had abandoned the search for their most acclaimed Meister. Rumors of an outside doctor being seen at Gallows Manor; the Reaper leaving the Academy for two days; the unexplained explosion some students heard from inside the Death Room before the Reaper vanished; everyone had their own ideas and their own theories.

 

Stein had been captured and was being held at the Manor. Stein had been a plant for Medusa the whole time and the Academy was now rooting out other hidden spies. Shinigami had engineered the whole thing and had sent Stein out on his own to bring down Medusa. Some of the theories were outright ridiculous – DeathScythe was dead and they were trying to hide it. Shinigami didn't have a plan and takeover by Arachnophobia was imminent.

 

And the most painful sentiment, one several students seemed to share – that if DeathScythe had stayed by his Meister's side during the Academy founding party, the Kishin would be dead. That he'd deserved the beating he'd received at Stein's hands.

 

Except if he _hadn't_ been down there with them, Stein couldn't have kept Medusa at bay either . . . and she and her friends could have all been killed.

 

“Maka?” Soul's voice cut through her worrying. “You're thinking too hard again. You're gonna give yourself wrinkles doing that.”

 

“Will not.” She still gave her partner a half-smile, sitting back up. “Kid, have you heard anything about Crona?

 

Death the Kid shook his head, hands crossed behind his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Dad hasn't been exactly open about much of anything lately, and the only time I saw him yesterday was after dinner. He hasn't said anything regarding the case.”

 

“Did Papa say anything, maybe?” Maka asked hopefully.

 

“Er . . . .” Kid suddenly became intensely interested in his fingernails, which were disappointingly perfect. “Well, Maka, I didn't actually see your father yesterday.”

 

Her head shot up, worry in her eyes; Soul looked over her head and raised an eyebrow. “He sick or something?” the scythe ventured.

 

“He had another weird screamy dream last night,” Patty offered. Liz and Kid sat up straight in their chairs, waving their hands no at her under the desk. “I gave him Mr. Giraffe to sleep with, but I don't think he likes him much. Mr. Giraffe keeps waking up underneath a chair.”

 

“Kid?” The tone in the scythemeister's voice was dangerous.

 

The young shinigami gulped.

 

Liz briefly laid a hand on Kid's shoulder. “Lemme handle this,” she whispered, so low he could barely hear it. Louder, she said, “Patty, that wasn't DeathScythe, that was Kid. He was dreaming someone rearranged the bathroom again.”

 

“Oooh, the _really_ scary one. Maybe I should have given you Mr. Giraffe instead, Kid.”

 

Soul snickered. “. . . thanks, Patty,” Kid groaned.

 

“I think DeathScythe was just really tired yesterday, Maka,” Liz continued. “Shinigami-sama has been doing extra training with him, and you know he's still healing up from that fight. Which reminds me, actually – one of the maids said he wanted one of us to give this to you.” She pulled a business card out of her pocket and handed it over.

 

“A business card?” She flipped it over to the back and scanned the neat penmanship on the back. “Yeah, this is his handwriting. He wants to meet me for dinner tonight. Strange. Soul, do you think-”

 

Kid let out a sigh of relief as Maka's intense gaze fell away from them and back onto her Weapon partner. Maka didn't need to hear the truth – that her father woke the household up every night screaming, or that his own father was rarely leaving his Weapon's side for anything (even, he noted with a touch of burgeoning jealousy, his own son). She didn't need to know that the rumors, what scant few there were, were flying furious around the Manor, that something so traumatic had happened to Shinigami's Weapon partner that the two were having issues synchronizing.

 

She especially didn't need to know that they had gone home the night before to the sound of muffled shouting, screams that faded to sobs then into silence; that Kid had seen his father carry hers out of the master bathroom wrapped haphazardly in his cloak.

 

That he had seen the imprint of teeth on her father's broken body, in a place where teeth were not supposed to go.

 

Fingers pressed into his shoulder again and he flicked weary gold eyes up; Liz looked back down at him, concerned. “I'm fine,” he said under his breath. It had actually been Liz who had clued him into the significance of a bite wound that high up on the thigh, and it was to her that he looked to for guidance now. “Are you OK?”

 

She nodded. “I'm fine,” she said, a little too casually. The Thompson sisters' past was something that was still mostly a mystery to him, and one he didn't press upon when he could help it. They had done and seen more in their lives on the streets than he would ever know, and sometimes, like now, he was reminded of how dark and cold their lives before really were. As if sensing the turn of his thoughts, she flicked him on the nose and sat back. “Oh, hey, there's Tsubaki and Black*Star,” she said loudly. “He kinda looks pissed.”

 

“I kinda _am_ pissed,” he replied, hopping over the desks into his seat. Tsubaki trailed after him, ever polite as she passed by; she was holding a cold compress in her hand. The reason for it was obvious – Black*Star was nursing a black eye swelled to the size of a grapefruit. “I went to ask Sid for something and he went and changed his apartment lock on me!”

 

“Are you sure?” Maka asked, poking her head back into the conversation. “He's always made s- are you okay?!”

 

“Whoa,” was Soul's pithy response. “Not cool, man. How'd you get a shiner like that?”

 

Tsubaki heaved a sigh as she sat next to her Meister and unceremoniously plopped the icepack back on his face. “Ow!” he yelped. “Watch it, that hurts!”

 

“He broke in anyway,” she replied for him.

 

Patty laughed. Liz shook her head. “Didn't you learn anything from after you broke into St-” she began, then stopped awkwardly. Maka looked at her hands; Kid bit his lip.

 

“Nah, Sid's not a psycho like Stein,” Black*Star said, oblivious. “At least, I didn't _think_ so. Now I dunno. He turned my old bedroom into a crime lab, it's got all _kinds_ of gross stuff in it.”

 

“Crime lab?” Soul asked. “Wait, so the rumor's true? He's the one investigating the attack on Maka's old man? The police aren't in on it?”

 

The assassin nodded. “Nope, just Sid. It's just a bunch of photos and bloody clothes and shit though. Dunno what they need all that stuff for. They know who beat him up.”

 

Liz gave Kid a knowing look.

 

“What were you doing in there, you idiot?” Maka snapped.

 

“I just said, it used to be _my room_. I thought I'd left some old training weights in there.” He gave her a look and rolled his eyes. “Calm down. I didn't touch anything; I'm way too awesome a ninja to do something like that. Besides, Sid caught me as soon as I got in there.” He shifted the icepack on his face. “And he kicked me out pretty fast after that. So I thought I'd just come to school instead.”

 

“In other words, you had to drag him to the dispensary, huh, Tsubaki?” Liz asked.

 

“Well . . . .” Tsubaki hid a grin behind one hand. Black*Star grumbled under his breath, kicking his feet up on the desk. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

 

Maka forced herself to grin as the others laughed. The others didn't pay attention to it, but she could hear the buzz of other students behind them, whispering, buzzing like insects with the new tidy bits of gossip they had gleaned from eavesdropping – more gossip and pitied looks and isolation-

 

“Isn't that Miss Azusa? One of the deathscythes?”

 

The group looked down. Azusa stood at the lectern, arms crossed over her chest. “Class Crescent Moon, your attention please,” she snapped, cracking a ruler against the blackboard. Nearly everyone jumped. “Listen up, and listen well. Classes are being dismissed early today.” She adjusted her glasses, taking a deep breath. “Go home, call your families, and make your preparations. Tomorrow morning, we launch our attack against Arachnophobia and the Kishin.”

 

*~*

 

The hallways were nearly empty when Spirit walked through the Academy doors shortly after noon. Most of the people there were support staff, preparing for tomorrow's activities; what few students were still wandering the halls were generally young NOT students who would not be involved in the fight. The older students he sent home as he saw them – the uneasy, curious looks they gave him, and the inevitable whispering behind his back, were something he was having to work very hard to not let affect him.

 

Two students – a Meister and Weapon pair, in Maka's class – came jogging up to him. “Hello, ladies,” he said. “Shouldn't you two be at home, getting ready?”

 

The Meister, a young pink-haired girl, nodded bashfully, trying not to stare at the bruising still visible on his neck. “We're on our way, DeathScythe, sir. But we were just in the Dispensary and Nygus told us that if we saw you come in, to tell you to go see her before you see Shinigami-sama. Sir.”

 

Spirit forced a sigh, then smiled slightly at the girls; inwardly, he was cringing. “A fate worse than being sent to the principal's office,” he bemoaned, eliciting a giggle from the Weapon and a smile from the Meister. “I'll do it, just so you two don't get into trouble. Now get out of here. Shoo. You shouldn't be wasting your time here, not today.”

 

“Yes, sir,” they chimed in unison, scurrying off now that their mission was complete. The deathscythe watched them go, then sighed for real and trudged in the direction they had come from. He had known this was coming, but didn't want to face it.

 

Shinigami knowing the truth about what had happened to him – that was one thing.

 

Sid and Nygus knowing was a completely different story.

 

Nygus was waiting for him when he arrived, her dreadlocks pulled back into a neat ponytail and a lab jacket on over her combat fatigues. “There you are, DeathScythe. Come on in. Have a seat – jacket, shirt, socks, and shoes off, please.”

 

He closed the door behind him, just enough that the door and jamb met. “But I get to keep my tie on? You're too generous.”

 

The sarcasm made her look up at him. Nygus would not meet Spirit's eyes; she merely glanced up at his neck before looking back at the notepad in her hands. His stomach dropped. “That comes off too, smartass,” she replied, rapping him atop the head with the clipboard. “. . . do you want some privacy?”

 

The deathscythe closed his eyes. “It's a basic examination, isn't it?” he asked, managing to keep his voice even with a confidence he did not feel. “You're busy, and I have things to do. Let's not prolong it any more than we have to.”

 

“Of course,” she said softly. “I'll go get my things, then.”

 

Undressing was the easy part. Sitting there alone in a room half-naked, surrounded by scalpels and medical tools – _that_ was the hard part. He looked vulnerable – he _felt_ vulnerable in the slight chill, bare and defenseless. If Nygus noticed how his jaw was set, or how his hands trembled so much that he had to clench his pants legs to keep them still, she didn't say anything. “Right,” she said, pulling on latex gloves. “Let's take a look at your back.”

 

There was a mirror across from him hanging on the wall; he could see himself and observe what the school nurse was doing at the same time. Spirit glanced at himself and was somehow unsurprised when a pair of mismatched gold-and-silver eyes stared back out of his own reflection. “I expect Kim and Jackie sent you here?” she asked, pressing her fingers over the healing wounds.

 

“The students? Yeah.” DeathScythe let out a low hiss of pain as she prodded at one particularly sensitive spot. “I sent them on home as soon as they told me. I got the message at the Manor, by the way. You didn't have to send more people after me.”

 

“Just making sure you didn't forget,” she replied, her brow furrowed. “I think some of these stitches can come out. Lucky you.”

 

“Yeah,” he said. “ _Lucky me._ ”

 

She went silent behind him; only the slight pain of threads being pulled through his flesh let him know she was working. “Sid is coming down here after I'm done,” she said after a few moments, putting down her scissors.

 

“Sid?” A surge of panic flowed through him. “Why? What does he need?”

 

She hesitated. “I'm not sure.” A lie. Spirit hissed a breath through clenched teeth and closed his eyes. In the back of his mind, he could hear the Wolf laughing, faint little barking howls of amusement. “You shouldn't need your ribs rewrapped; has Shinigami-sama been taking care of them?”

 

He grunted a yes. She tapped him on the shoulder again and walked back to sit in a chair across from him. “Well, I'm done with that. You know, you'd be healing faster if you'd eat properly. Don't think I'm not tracking your weight, mister.”

 

Letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, the deathscythe relaxed his shoulders, rolling them to loosen the tension. It was a relief to be at a distance again, to not have someone hovering behind him. “Yes, _Mom_.”

 

She laughed. “Hey, I call it like I see it. Pop your feet up here so I can look them over and we'll be done.”

 

He did as instructed, wincing as she grabbed him by the ankle and poked at the sole of one tender foot. “How's your pain level when walking? Scale of one to ten?”

 

“Eh, five, I suppose. Six by the end of the-”

 

The door creaked open.

 

“DeathScythe?”

 

Sid. Nygus looked up from where she had Spirit's foot held firmly in her lap and smiled at her partner. “Come on in. I'm just finishing up.”

 

Just like Nygus, Sid would not look him directly in the eye. His blank gaze roamed over his bruised and bandaged torso before resting on the raised scars on his back. “How're you feeling, DeathScythe?” he asked in a too-hearty-to-be-genuine voice, closing the door completely behind him.

 

Spirit took a deep breath. One person was bad enough; two was worse. And it was _stupid_ , he and Sid had been friends since they were _kids_ , but that didn't stop him from feeling overexposed, the fight or flight instinct itching at the back of his skull. “Fine,” he lied, his voice far more steady than he had expected it to be. “What do you need, Sid?”

 

“I just have a few things I need to have clarified. I don't know if you've heard, but Shinigami-sama has me going over the evidence found in your house,” he began, and Spirit had to swallow back a surge of nausea. “I've gone through most of it, but . . . I need you to ID something for me, tell me who it belongs to.”

 

The younger man cast a wary eye at the item hanging from the other's hand. The Wolf's voice hissed in his ear, _fight or run, fight or_ _ **die**_. “I'm supposed to be meeting with Shinigami-sama in a few minutes. Can this – wait a bit?”

 

“It won't take but a moment.” The zombie held up a large see-through plastic bag; inside it was coiled a length of leather, a silver buckle splashed with blood-

 

_-glass digging into his back, the rustling sound of leather running through cloth, the scent of stale tobacco and rotting lotus seeds-_

 

“DeathScythe?”

 

_-a hand around his ankle, cool night air on bare skin, the purr of a zipper coming down-_

 

“ _DeathScythe!_ ”

 

Spirit didn't realize he had crawled backwards on the bed, away from them until Sid shouted his name again; his arms were crossed in front of him, scythe blades flared wide. The two stared at him in concern as he struggled to control his breathing, the blades slowly retracting. Sid and Nygus glanced at each other. “Are you all right?” Nygus asked, a bit winded – he had accidentally kicked her in the stomach in his attempt to get away.

 

“I,” he started. His entire body trembled. Spirit closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I – it's _Stein's_ ,” he whispered in a rush.

 

Sid's voice, a little dubious: “Are you positive?”

 

Spirit's eyes burned behind the tightly closed lids. “ _Yes_ ,” he snarled, opening them to glare at Sid; he dashed away any shameful traces of liquid from his eyes with the back of his hand. “I'm positive. Do you think I could _forget?_ ”

 

Sid pursed his lips, pretending to not have heard the question. “I have to make sure before we test it,” he said, tucking the offending bag behind him and out of sight. Nygus looked at him curiously. “I have multiple samples matching DeathScythe's DNA there; it's the other samples I have to match.”

 

“I nearly bled out in my own house, Sid, of _course_ -”

 

Those blank eyes met his for the first time; the stare was cold and distant, silently judging him. “You left more than just blood at the site, DeathScythe.”

 

The younger man felt his heart nearly stop.

 

_A jagged thrust. A cry of pain. Something hot splatters across his bare stomach._

 

“ _Don't feel bad, sempai. It's an automatic response to stimulation. It doesn't mean you enjoy this. Or maybe it does._ That _I can't tell.”_

 

His face burned crimson; he dropped his eyes to the fists curled in his lap, willing himself to stop shaking. _Sid didn't believe him._ That was what it came down to – whether he believed the sex was consensual or what, Sid knew the truth and didn't believe him. All because his body had betrayed him, when he'd had no control, no way to _fight_ \- and it hurt worse than if his friend had simply come up and stabbed him in the back.

 

“Do you need anything else?” the younger man snapped. His voice cracked, wavering between fury and an impending breakdown.

 

The zombie hesitated for a solid moment, then shook his head. “. . . no. I'm good for now. Sorry for – you know. This.” He paused again, then nodded at Nygus (who was glaring daggers at him) and took his leave as abruptly as he entered, closing the door behind him.

 

“You all right, DeathScythe?”

 

Spirit glanced at Nygus; her face was writ with concern. “Yeah,” he said. All the fight went out of him; he slumped forward, staring at the floor. “I'm- I'm sorry for kicking you like that. You're not hurt, are you?”

 

She offered him a half-smile. “Not a bit. Don't worry about it.” A few notes were made on the chart before she pointed at his feet with her pen. “Just keep your feet bandaged and clean, and stay off them as much as you can,” she said, her voice entirely too cheery. “I'll send some more pain medication to Gallows Manor for you.” She stood up; a fleeting look of pity crossed her face before it was replaced with a smile. “I'll go do that now before I forget. Do you need any help getting dressed?”

 

“No. Go on.”

 

She patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Don't let him get to you. He's just doing his job.” She squeezed his shoulder again, affectionately, then turned and walked into the other room.

 

Spirit began tugging on his dress shirt. In the mirror, the Wolf winked at him, grinning. “Yeah,” he said lowly, turning away. “Just doing his job.”

 

*~*

 

“ _Another_ Magic Tool? Really?”

 

The Death Room was empty except for Kid and his father; Shinigami was back in his normal form, all jagged edges and clownish hands and empty eyes behind a static mask. The elder of the two stood in front of the largest mirror on the podium, hands clasped behind his back. “It's a shame we found out about it this late in the game, but what can you do? You will help find it for me, yes?”

 

Kid looked down at the paper in his hands. More secrets. More unanswered questions. The Magic Tools had almost gone forgotten in the uproar over Stein and Spirit – and now this, on the eve of the battle with Arachnophobia? The old familiar feeling of distrust crept back up over him, one he loathed, especially feeling it in connection with his father. “If you wish,” he said neutrally.

 

“Thank you,” Shinigami said, turning back around.

 

“. . . Father?”

 

“Yes, son?”

 

The original question was going to be something about Eibon, he was sure of it, but when Kid began to talk his mind blanked and the question really weighing heaviest on his heart came out instead. “What's going on between you and DeathScythe?”

 

It was impossible to miss how the Reaper stiffened at that. “What . . . do you mean, Kid?” he asked carefully, turning back around.

 

“I-” Oh, if only he could go back in time and take his foot out of his mouth! “It just . . . it seems to me you've taken a surprising amount of interest in his well-being, is all. I know he's your primary Weapon, but . . . spending two days away from the Academy?”

 

“I have done that before, for longer periods of time.”

 

“In a form outside your normal one?” Kid felt a small sense of triumph when his father turned his face away. “You always told me it was dangerous for you to spend very long in a humanoid form, because it meant your powers were suppressed! And now you go and do it right when we're about to face Arachnophobia?”

 

Shinigami sighed and stared down at his son, his mask blank. “If Liz or Patty or were seriously hurt, would you not do everything in your power to help them heal?”

 

Kid scowled. “Well, of course, but – for one, what form I take doesn't put the rest of the city at risk! And you're evading the question! Why are you doing all this? You used to do this only for-” _Only for me,_ was what he was going to say, but trailed off. “Would you do all this for one of the other deathscythes?”

 

“. . . .” Shinigami looked away again. “Kid, it's not-”

 

“Well?”

 

“. . . no,” came the reluctant answer, one that did nothing to assuage the little flare of jealousy in the boy's heart. “I wouldn't.”

 

“Then what makes this different? What's going _on?_ ”

 

“What is it with you young ones and hard questions?” He looked back down at his son, golden eyes glinting out from behind the mask. “There are some things you don't understand yet, the darker side of humanity that you haven't had to experience – and if I could, I'd have it that you never would. But life isn't fair, and you'll learn of it eventually. But not today, Kid.” There was a pain in his eyes that was visible even through the shadows, dark and unsettling.

 

Kid's mind went back to the night before, his father cradling a broken figure to his chest, carrying him like the most fragile of dolls. The wound he had seen, so intimate yet so cruel. Liz's voice as she explained, weary and sad, _it's what they mean by rape, Kid_.

 

His father's eyes after putting the restless DeathScythe to bed, the helplessness and the fury that turned normally warm golden irises cold.

 

Suddenly Kid thought he understood just what made this case so different.

 

One huge hand caressed the top of the boy's head with an infinite gentleness. “You've already had to learn too much too soon. Please don't ask me to add to it today.”

 

The sheer earnestness in his father's voice made him relent. “So . . . I just need to get that Magic Tool, right?” he asked, giving his father a bit of a smile.

 

“Right,” Shinigami said, bouncing backward. His entire posture changed, lifting tall and proud. “Just be careful, all right? I doubt it'll be hard for you, but still.”

 

Kid nodded. “I won't let you down, Father.”

 

The eyeholes of his mask curved upward in a smile. “You never do.”

 

*~*

 

Thirty minutes after Kid had departed the Death Room, Spirit entered it, quiet and without his usual bluster. It was eerily quiet inside; Shinigami sat at a low Japanese-style table with his hands folded in front of him, a cup of tea long gone cold at his elbow. He didn't even look up until his Weapon was almost on top of him. “-Spirit!” he said, a bit too cheerfully. “How was your checkup?”

 

“. . . fine.” Which, of course, meant that something had gone wrong. The deathscythe sat down on one of the overstuffed cushions and stretched his legs out before taking up a sheaf of papers from the edge of the table. “Azusa has everyone's travel preparations taken care of?”

 

The Reaper nodded. “A few nations squawked about our disrupting air traffic, but we've got flights booked for every group. You'll probably have to smooth some things out in the morning when they get moving.” DeathScythe snorted in amusement. Death City was a nation-state much like the Vatican; unlike the Vatican, however, it had a lot more pull with organizations such as NATO and the UN. Those who thought his job was to stand around and wait for things to happen had never been around to listen to him negotiate students crossing borders between hostile nations, or coordinate with various military organizations. “The Brazilian government is still not happy about Rio de Janeiro's airport being completely rerouted, and Tezca _still_ won't answer my calls. Expect a lot of complaining from them.”

 

“They _always_ complain whenever we move down there. That's nothing new.” Spirit poured himself a cup of hot tea, paused, then refreshed his Meister's glass as well.

 

“So . . . how did the exam really go, Spirit?” Shinigami slid a tin of aspirin across the table, along with a plate of tea sandwiches.

 

He dryswallowed two of the pills, added a third, and picked at a croissant. “Sid stopped by,” he finally muttered.

 

That provoked an aggravated sigh. “I thought I told him to wait and do that _here_ ,” the elder being growled under his breath. “How-”

 

“I panicked,” Spirit replied in a monotone. He continued to dissect his pastry layer by layer. “I panicked from seeing a fucking _belt_ in a _baggie_. I'm pretty sure they're going to recommend you commit me before the day's over.”

 

Shinigami buttered another croissant, added jam, placed it in front of his Weapon, and brushed the remains of the shredded one off into a saucer. “You're getting over a traumatic event, Spirit, not crazy. There's a difference. Now eat your food instead of playing with it.”

 

He raised an eyebrow, finally sipping at his tea. “'Getting over a traumatic event'?” Spirit bit into the pastry. “Is that the euphemism we're using today? I kind of like it. It's very politically correct.”

 

Shinigami smacked him in the head.

 

Spirit nearly choked on his food, thumping himself in the chest and swallowing painfully. “Ow! What was _that_ for?!” he demanded when he could speak.

 

The Reaper shook his head. “Politically correct? Really?”

 

Spirit began to retort, then stopped. His Meister was too quiet, too solemn, watching him with his head propped up in one cartoonishly large hand and barely touching his beloved high-grade green tea. His soul wavelength was even off; instead of feeling powerful, with that slight edge of the abyssal that always seemed to follow him, he felt . . . tired. Distant. Shoving his own concerns to the side, the deathscythe leaned forward to look underneath his Meister's mask.“Shinigami-sama, what's wrong? Something's getting to you. You're acting off.”

 

“You have enough going on, Spirit.” He dodged, turning away before he could see under the mask. “I don't need to be burdening you further.”

 

“Yeah, because I've been nothing but a burden to you and that's totally fair.” Faded blue eyes turned hard with concern. “Let me be of _some_ use to you.”

 

“It's nothing-”

 

Spirit touched the edge of the Reaper's glove with his fingertips – a bold move on his part, considering. “Please?”

 

Shinigami bowed his head. “I spoke with Kid before you came in,” he said. “It made me think about . . . well, about a lot of things. I worry about him. I worry about – all of you.”

 

“That's normal,” he replied. “You think I'm not terrified? With my Maka helping to lead the charge on Baba Yaga Castle? Kid's your son. It's natural for you to be worried. I'd be more concerned if you _weren't_.”

 

“It's not just that,” the elder being confessed. He reached up and tilted the mask back, exposing a face drawn and haggard from worry. “There are so many uncertainties. If the Magic Tools don't work the way they should-”

 

“-then I'll find that Eibon and kick his ass from here to Antarctica.”

 

His lips twitched upwards in the hint of a smile. “It's not just that. I keep thinking about if,” he continued, “if something . . . goes wrong. Ashura was my friend once, long ago. I've had many, many friends I've had to bury over the centuries.” Ancient grief dulled his eyes. “I'm tired, Spirit. I dread the thought of having to do it again.”

 

“But Ashura-”

 

Shinigami shook his head, shoulders slumped in defeat. Age seemed to weigh upon his ageless features, painful and bitter. “I don't mean Ashura. He lost his chance at compassion when he escaped. I'm afraid we'll go into battle and I'll fail. I'll fail you all.” He hesitated. “And I'll lose – someone else.”

 

Spirit stared at his Meister for several long moments before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You're an idiot, Shinigami-sama,” he said, not unkindly.

 

“What?”

 

“Maka is strong and stubborn and beautiful like her mother. That idiot she's partnered with won't let her down, no matter how I hate to admit it.” He stared down at his hands, expression unreadable. “Black*Star is insane, but he's got more power than any other Meister in the school, and Tsubaki is his better half. Kid? He's you, in miniature, with two of the toughest street kids I've ever seen backing him up. You have the best students, the best staff, and they're willing to fight no matter how scared they get.

 

“You've got the Demon Sword and Marie out to cut that witch Medusa a new one. Justin's a one-man army. Azusa's a logistical genius.”

 

Spirit swallowed hard, then shrugged, managing a small, heartfelt smile. “And you got me. I won't lie, I'm terrified – for all the same reasons you are, and then some. I can't sleep, I'm scared of my own shadow, and I still can't say S- _Stein's_ name without wanting to throw up.” He trembled; the smile faded a bit. “I'm so scared I won't be strong enough, or that I'll fail you – that someone will get hurt because I screw up, or worse. And I don't even want to _think_ about my baby girl taking on Ashura. I'm her father. I am _going_ to protect her. This is the world my Maka is going to grow up in, and I won't let _anyone_ take that away from her. Not without a fight.”

 

“ _Spirit_ . . . .”

 

Spirit held a hand out to his Meister. “If it's suddenly become weak to be uncertain about everything, then at least we can be weak together, huh?”

 

Shinigami smiled bright, encapsulating his Weapon partner's hand in both of his huge ones. “Yeah,” he said, his voice tremulous in gratitude. “That we can.”


	8. In Rag and Bones

Chapter 8: In Rag and Bones

 

Jasmine was a little-known Thai restaurant on the western end of Death City, tucked away inside a rundown strip mall. Maka knew it well; it had been a favorite of the family, in happier times. Seeing it now, knowing her mother wouldn't be there with them, was a bittersweet emotion. The last time they'd been there together had been . . . the day she'd been accepted to the DWMA. Her parents had been all smiles and warmth, a false front manufactured especially for their daughter.

 

Looking from the street, she could see the silhouette of her father sitting at a booth in the restaurant, shoulders hunched over, head resting against his clasped hands. As she watched, he raked a hand through the back of his hair, pulling at it before slumping down further. It seemed wrong to watch him be so unguarded like this. As open and freely emotional as he acted, much of it was just that – an act. Being freewheeling and happy-go-lucky was his normal coping mechanism. Quiet brooding and reflection was just unnatural.

 

Someone on the sidewalk nearly bumped into her; Maka realized with a start that she'd been standing outside for at least ten minutes, just staring.

 

She scurried into the bistro. The bells on the door jangled merrily to announce her; she bypassed the waitress and made a beeline for the corner. “S-sorry I'm late, Papa,” Maka said once she was at his side. She slipped into the other side of the booth, nervously kicking her legs against the seat. “I didn't make you wait, did I?”

 

“No,” Spirit said, finally looking up. Exhaustion was taking an obvious toll on him, but the smile he turned on her was genuine. “It's fine.” Unspoken was his surprise that she had come at all, and he looked as though he had planned to wait a while for her; a heavy book lay on the table, bookmarked a few chapters in, and the ice in his chai latte was half-melted. “I'm not interrupting your plans, am I?”

 

“I've got everything packed. Soul's stuff too.” She fidgeted with her place setting. “Our plane leaves at 9AM, I think – we just have to stop at the Academy first.”

 

He nodded absently. “We'll be giving everyone their final assignments and plane tickets at the school, plus extra safety gear and equipment depending on which area each student is going to. I won't be able to see you off in the morning.” A slight frown crossed his face. “There are a few more logistics problems I'll have to settle in real-time. We don't think Arachne's forces know we're moving, but just in case, we have certain cooperating nations escorting your planes. It's the border handoffs that'll be tricky.”

 

Maka blinked. “You think there might be trouble?” she asked.

 

“. . . no! No, honestly, I don't think there will be any issues there. It's more symbolic than anything.” The deathscythe pulled at his collar; he had loosened his necktie and undid his collar before she arrived, and it was plain to tell that wearing the formal gear was uncomfortable on his wounds. “Sometimes the UN gets a bit . . . testy about the DWMA handling major issues like these without consulting them. Involving them like this lets them keep their pride and show their home nations that they're effective, and itreally costs us little, so it's better to cooperate. Diplomacy's a game, really.” He chuckled a bit. “Just the kind where you win if you don't have a migraine at the end.”

 

It wasn't often that her father discussed the more diplomatic facets of his job, and she found it fascinating. And a bit humbling, truth be told; many times she tended to forget that he did far more than just turn into a giant swinging blade of doom. “It sounds like a lot to deal with,” she reflected. “Are the other deathscythes helping any?”

 

“Azusa is handing the majority of the logistics.” He waved a waitress over. “Everyone else has other assignments. I'm fine, Maka. It's nothing I can't handle. But it's sweet of you to worry about your old man.”

 

Her cheeks turned scarlet. “W-who said I was worried?” she blustered, snatching up a menu. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing you fair share of work! -ah, Pad See-ew, please. And a chai latte?”

 

“Panang curry.” Spirit smiled slightly and shook his head as the waitress left. “I always do my fair share of work, Maka.”

 

“Except when it comes to your marriage.”

 

Maka slapped her hands over her mouth as soon as the words came out. Yes, she meant them, but not now, not when her father was already so downtrodden. “I'm sorry,” she squeaked.

 

“No. You're right.”

 

Her hands fell.

 

“I didn't give your mother the time and care she deserved, and that's my fault.” Spirit had turned himself slightly, and was now gazing out the window, his eyes shadowed. “I made life harder on both of you . . . and for that I'm sorry.”

 

She fidgeted in place. “Is that what you asked me down here for?”

 

“Not originally, no.” He shifted his weight to his uninjured side. “But it doesn't make it any less true. A man has his pride, and I don't like to admit to my mistakes, but right now pride is-” One shoulder lifted in a half-hearted shrug. “It's unimportant.”

 

It wasn't unimportant; it was almost nonexistent. Soul Perception was a powerful tool in moments like these, and it whispered the secrets he would rather keep. While his soul was no longer quite as dented or ragged as it had been, it was still tiny and withdrawn and cracked down the center. It flickered, strangled by self-doubt and a heavy sense of shame (in what, she couldn't tell); the only thing she could feel remotely resembling pride was . . . in her.

 

He was _proud_ of her.

 

Maka bit the inside of her cheek to keep her eyes from welling up.

 

“I have something for you, actually,” he was saying, oblivious to her inspection. One hand dug around in his blazer pocket before pulling out a small box. A very familiar little box, the velvet worn off around the edges; she opened it up to find her mother's wedding band, strung next to an antique crucifix on a golden chain.

 

“We didn't have much money when we eloped,” he explained as she lifted it out. “I bought the ring off an old gypsy; she said it had anti-demon powers. Whether that's true or not, I don't know, but . . . I want you to have it.”

 

With trembling fingers, she examined the script inside the ring, now so old and worn it was illegible. The crucifix next to it was even older, a simple silver cross with golden 'cloth' draped over the arms. “The crucifix was my mother's,” Spirit continued. “Your grandmother's. You have her eyes.” His voice roughened, dropped a bit. “She never took it off as long as I knew her, and she made me promise to keep it after she – after she passed. I've always kept it on me until now.”

 

She looked up at him in surprise. It was rare that he would speak of his family without prompting; for him to bring this up so openly was a shock. “Papa?”

 

“I wish you could have met her. You two would have gotten along very well, I think.” He reached out and took the necklace back, unfastening the clasp on the chain. “I think it would make her happy to know her granddaughter is wearing it now.”

 

Maka slipped out of the booth and crouched in front of her father, letting him place it around her neck. The trinkets hung over her heart, heavy and comforting. “Looks good on you,” Spirit said, brushing a stray hair out of his daughter's face. It was too painful to look directly into his eyes, but she forced herself to do it anyway, to see the pride warring with the sadness and concern.

 

“Papa, I-”

 

The arrival of food (and Maka's traitorous rumbling tummy) broke up the family moment.

 

It was several minutes into their meal – Maka was at least eating, Spirit preferring to push his food around and nibble halfheartedly at it only when forced to – when the young girl spoke up again. “What's going to happen to Crona?” she asked.

 

“Shinigami-sama is still deciding that, Maka.” She stared pointedly at his plate, then back up at him; he sighed and took a bite of his curry. “I put in a request for leniency like the rest of you. It's up to him now.”

 

“. . . what about Medusa?”

 

“We can't touch her,” he said slowly. Her eyes were bright upon him, indignant. “You know the deal.”

 

She scoffed. “Making deals with witches.”

 

“Shinigami-sama did what he thought was best, Maka. I can't say anyone likes it any more than you do, but-”

 

“What about Professor Stein?”

 

Spirit stopped mid-sentence, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. He swallowed hard. His soul, already folded in on itself, constricted even tighter, trembling under her perceptive gaze. “Wh- what about him?” he managed.

 

“The Academy hasn't really given up on finding him, have they?” Her voice was desperate. “I know he can be creepy and I know you two had a _horrible_ fight but he's one of the best teachers at the Academy and he's _always_ been there for us when we need him-”

 

He glanced at her open face, then looked away. “It's not that simple,” he managed, his voice shaking.

 

“Why not? What else did Professor Stein do that nobody wants him back?”

 

“Maka.” He held a trembling hand up to stop her, flinching as she spoke the dreaded name. “We – the Academy – I don't-” A headshake, before: “He's with Medusa. As long as he's there, we can't do anything.”

 

Maka's lower lip trembled. Just like the others, he was evading her questions – keeping secrets. “But he's your friend! He was your Meister! Can't you forgive him?”

 

The deathscythe turned his head away, jaw set and eyes closed tight. One hand involuntarily went to touch the angry bruises at his throat. “Maka, please . . . .” There was a desperate edge to his voice now. “Just . . . stop. _Please._ ”

 

And there it was again. A once strong soul, now timid and irrevocably cracked; once strong hands now trembling faintly; where was the rock she had known, the man known as _the_ DeathScythe, the Reaper's personal Weapon, the man who had never seemed to have a serious bone in his body? Where had her childhood idol gone, and who was this frightened beast who had taken his place, this sheep in wolf's clothing?

 

They sat there in silence, the table between them a chasm that seemed insurmountable. Maka stared at her hands. Her appetite had left her. “Sorry,” she muttered, drawing squiggles in the condensation on her drink glass.

 

“. . . don't be. It's not your fault.” He pulled out a few bills and tossed them on the table. “I have to get going – there are still a few things I've got to review before tomorrow's missions. Promise me you'll be careful?”

 

She nodded. Spirit slipped out of the booth and stepped over, pressing a kiss to the top of her head; she gave him a watery smile in return. “I'll see you when you get back, then.” He slid out of the booth and gave her a fleeting smile before slowly limping his way out. Maka's hand went to the necklace he had given her, and the trinkets hanging there; she held on to them and willed her eyes dry until after he had slipped through the restaurant door.

 

*~*

 

Traveling at night, sleeping during the day; the edge of the desert was visible on the horizon, sunrise just beginning to color the edge of the sky red when Marie called a halt to the day's trek. Crona gnawed halfheartedly at the rations she passed out while she looked for her guide book. “I think we'll take a short break here, and then push on,” Marie said, tossing a map aside. “We'll catch a plane when we hit Mexico City. Do you have enough water there?”

 

Crona shook his canteen and nodded. “Good,” the deathscythe continued. “I think-”

 

An envelope fell out of the book she was holding.

 

“-I think I'm going to go lay down, actually,” she mused, picking the envelope up. “We won't be resting for more than a few hours, so nap if you need to.”

 

“Yes, Miss Marie.”

 

The rocky outcropping Marie curled up under barely let in enough natural light to read; she pushed her bedroll under her head, checked to see where Crona was, then slit the envelope with a fingernail. Inside was a single sheet of paper, scrawled over with a rushed hand. She unfolded it, holding it above her head, and began to read.

 

_Marie,_

_If you're taking the time to read this, please understand that it brings me no joy to write it. I'm going against Shinigami-sama's direct orders by doing this, actually; he's told Sid and I to tell no one what we know regarding what happened between Stein and Spirit. I can't keep it a secret, though, not if you're going up against him on your own. You're in danger, Marie, and I can't beg you enough to turn back while you can. I know you won't, because you ~~love like~~ have it in your fool head that you can save him. If you have to go on this fool's errand, though, I can at least prepare you for what you're going up against._

 

_Stein r-_

 

Marie had to bite down on her hand to stifle a gasp. Her eyes scanned the sentence over and over in disbelief. But no, rereading it only ingrained it further into her mind. Each letter, each loop of Nygus's handwriting – it was no farce.

 

But did she believe it? Would Stein – _could_ Stein actually do something so heinous? To his own partner, his best friend? Her heart wanted to scream no-

 

\--but deep inside, the part of her that knew his Madness . . . that part had its doubts.

 

_If he could hurt Spirit like that, what could he do to Crona? To me? To_ himself _, once he realizes what he's done? Oh, Stein . . . ._

 

She didn't even realize she was shaking until Crona came up behind her; she nearly shrieked when he spoke. “Miss Marie?” The child's owlish eyes turned to her, concerned. “Are you all right? You hurt yourself.”

 

“Y-yeah. It's nothing. I'm fine.” She took one last look at the letter, then folded it up and stuffed it back into the book she'd kept it in. “Crona? Are you sure you want to do this? It's . . . it's going to be dangerous. _Really_ dangerous.”

 

He blinked, confused. “I know,” he said, matter-of-factly.

 

“But Stein-”

 

“Professor Stein might try to k- kill me if he's under Medusa's control.” Crona stared at his shoes, his voice quiet but firm. “Medusa _will_ try to. I know what I'm going into, Miss Marie. Please don't try to talk me out of it.”

 

She sighed, staring at the book and its contents for a solid minute. “Get your stuff together. We don't have time for a break after all, and we're going to have to talk as we go.” She slipped the book back into her pack. Her hand, red and angry with teeth marks, throbbed as she lifted the backpack up onto her shoulders. “Tell me, Crona – how much do you know about Stein's fighting style?”

 

*~*

 

“Spirit, you should try to rest. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, y'know.”

 

The deathscythe sat at a desk in the Manor library, face drawn and eyes bleary; he waved his Meister's concerns off with one hand, the other holding a phone to his ear. “I'm sure their concerns are valid, but – I understand it's sacred to them, but you've got to prioritize, Prime Minister! Ayers Rock is – yes, I've been there once, I-” He sighed deeply, resting his head in his free hand. “If that device isn't destroyed, your entire nation is at a much higher risk for its people going stark raving Mad-with-a-capital-M. Not regular crime, not regular murderers, but pre-Kishin roaming your streets.”

 

Shinigami quirked an eyebrow; he gently laid a hand on his Weapon partner's shoulder. DeathScythe was so tired he didn't even notice. “We will do everything we can to ensure that Ayers Rock is not damaged, but we can't promise anything. Our contact – my ex-wife, actually, but – er, yes, if she said that then we will do our best to uphold her bargain.” Hi shoulders fell further. “She's not there, is – no? I see . . . no, it's fine. The RAAF know to meet our incoming staff at – that's very generous of you. Please give my thanks to Vice Marshal Hupfeld.” He paused. “A message to Kami? Ah . . . Just tell her to be safe. Thank you. I will tell him – yes, I will. Thank you again, Prime Minister. Goodbye.”

 

“Australia?”

 

Spirit hung up the phone, rubbing his face with his hands and exhaling slowly. “Yeah. A few of the native Anangu have some reservations about our conducting what amounts to warfare at a sacred site. They want the madness amplifiers gone, but they don't particularly want us doing the removal. Prime Minister Gillard gives her regards, by the way.”

 

He squeezed the younger man's shoulder in a comforting gesture; the deathscythe startled before looking up and giving him a slight smile. “What was the Prime Minister saying about Kami?” the Reaper asked hesitantly.

 

“Ah . . . that.” The smile slid off his face. “She wants to take some of the Anangu with her group and let them break down the machine while her team takes out the Arachnophobia agents. It's risky as hell, but if anyone can pull it off, it's her.” Once upon a time there would have been pride in his voice, talking about his former Meister; now there was just a bittersweet sadness, an almost final tone.

 

“. . . you should be sleeping.” Worry clouded the older being's golden eyes. “I could have handled this.”

 

He shook his head. “I can't sleep. We have to be back at the Academy in four hours anyway; I might as well get some work done.”

 

“Try?” Shinigami's tone was almost pleading. Spirit looked up at him, unable to keep the confusion out of his face as gloved fingers gently pushed cherry-red hair out of his face. “It's obvious you're exhausted. Even if it's just a nap – you can't function without _some_ form of rest, Spirit.” He hesitated, the backs of his fingers still resting against his Weapon's high cheekbone, then dropped his hand. “Please?”

 

Spirit relented, pushing himself up off the chair with a sigh. “Fine. I'll give it a try.” Giving his Meister a wary look, he stretched until his joints popped. “You might want to take your own advice, though, old man. Tomorrow's going to be hell.”

 

The Reaper just smiled and waved him off, the smile falling from his face once the younger man had left the room. He sat down hard in the now vacant chair. It was still warm, so warm against his perpetually cool skin; he closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the mask of calm slip and the exhaustion show through.

 

It wasn't until he felt his Weapon's soul wavelength fade down into the steadiness of sleep that he allowed himself to drift off, surrounded by the warmth the man had left behind.

 

*~*

 

_Tell me, Spirit . . . what is the opposite of Fear?_

 

The bleakness of the Room (Spirit had begun calling it that in his mind, just the Room – as if a space defined by bleak concrete could be called much else) seemed to have gained a new feature since his last impromptu visit. There was still four concrete walls and a concrete ceiling and floor; there was still an ancient projector running in a closed loop (and boxes, plenty more battered old boxes piled around now, some newly labeled 'DANGER STAY OUT' in red marker over the brittle tape that held them closed); and, of course, there was still the Wolf . . . .

 

. . . or, at least, what _looked_ like the Wolf. This beast, however, was _tiny_ , no larger than a medium-sized dog, blue-furred where the other was red, eyes mismatched in the opposite pattern. There was no sign of the Red Wolf, save for the claw marks it had previously left in the floor. “Wh- who the hell are _you_ supposed to be?”

 

The Blue Wolf cast mismatched gold-and-silver eyes upon the other's nearly-nude form, silently appraising him. _Answer my question and you'll answer your own._

 

The deathscythe crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Is this a trick?” he asked, staring at it in contempt.

 

It looked at him, strangely solemn. _If you don't know the answer, just say so._

 

“The opposite of fear? Courage, I suppose.” He scowled down at it, then snorted a laugh. “You're pretty pathetic to be anyone's sense of courage.”

 

_What was the saying your mother was so fond of? 'Have the faith of a mustard seed, and you can move mountains'? I wouldn't be so quick to judge by size._ The beast flicked its tail and stretched, yawning; its razor-sharp fangs glistened in the light. _Since you have doubts, answer me this: what is courage?_

 

This time the answer came swiftly. “The absence of fear.”

 

It rolled its eyes, pacing closer to him. _Save the smartassed comments for the peanut gallery you call colleagues._

 

“I'm being serious!”

 

_You're not being serious enough. Give me a real answer._

 

“What other answer do you _want?_ ” Spirit glared at it, fingers digging nervously into his biceps. “It means not being afraid of everything! Not jumping at every damn shadow I see! Not being _stupid-_ ”

 

The Blue Wolf lashed out with a heavy paw, the blow striking with tremendous force despite the creature's small size. Spirit went sprawling, the back of his head colliding with the wall hard enough to send stars across his vision. _Wrong again._ It began to pace in a semicircle around him, mismatched eyes glaring him down. _What is the Reaper relying on you for?_

 

He backed up into the wall, drawing his knees to his chest and eying the Wolf warily. “He – he needs a deathscythe to maximize his power.”

 

It huffed in aggravation _. Then why doesn't he just use Azusa or Justin?_

 

“He needs an actual scythe.”

 

Pivot. Step. Silver met blue in a fierce glare. _Why?_

 

“He's strongest with a scythe, is what-”

 

Another aggravated growl. _Close. Why would he be strongest with a scythe?_

 

“I don't-”

 

_You know. Why?_

 

He bit his lower lip, trying to think past the panic of being hemmed in. “-it has to do with Ashura. We're fighting a-” He stopped. “– Kishin Hunter. That's it, isn't it?”

 

The Blue Wolf stopped in front of him, nose mere inches from his own. _And what has to happen in order for him to use Kishin Hunter?_

 

Spirit's breath caught in his throat.

 

_Soul Resonance will bare your soul open to him further than even Marie's Healing Wavelength could hope to accomplish,_ it said with a hungry grin. Its fur flashed – and the Red Wolf, the embodiment of his Fear, stood above him, huge and feral. _Every touch, every sound, every_ scent _you can remember from that night, every single moment – the Reaper will see it too. And you'll get to feel it from his side – all the pity he's hiding, all the disgust at having to deal with a washed-up old whore like you. You'll get it all._ The Wolf placed its paws on his knees, pressing them apart. _Won't_ that _be a treat?_

 

His hands clutched at the beast's paws, pushing at it with all his strength. “Don't even _start_ ,” he growled.

 

_What's wrong, little boy?_ It lowered its fangs in his face, pressed nose-to-nose with him. _Can't take the reminder? Can't stand the feeling?_ The lupine embodiment of Fear pushed back, the rolling memory of weight and touch and prying fingers creeping over Spirit's skin. The projector began to whine behind them, soft murmurs and cries replaying on loop – Stein's voice laughing, his own pathetic pleas.

 

“Get _off_ of me-”

 

The scent of cigarette smoke and burning flesh began to waft into the room; his wounds throbbed, aching as phantom blades retraced raw scars. The Red Wolf drew its tongue over his cheek, over flushed cheeks and nascent tears. _How will you survive Resonance if you can't deal with your own memory, hmm? If you're afraid to relive your own weakness? You'll fail the Reaper, you'll fail your daughter-_

 

“ _I won't fail!_ ”

 

Spirit's fingers dug into the thick fur, wrapped around his Fear's throat, and bore down, throttling the breath out of the beast. “ _Yes,_ I'm fucking terrified!” he screamed. His eyes were wild, furious and bright; he bared his canines in a snarl. “I _know_ what I'll face when we Resonate! I already know! And _I don't_ _ **care!**_ ”

 

_You-_ It gasped, now backpedaling to try and get loose of the chokehold that was strangling the breath out of it. _You lie. You do care!_

 

“I can _afford_ to care about it when Ashura is _dead_ and my Maka is _safe!_ ” He shoved the Red Wolf away as hard as he could; it tumbled across the floor, knocking the projector off its table. The audio feed snarled, went silent. “If Shinigami-sama does hate me? If I disgust him? That's OK. Hell, I disgust _myself_ , why would I expect _him_ to feel any different?” Spirit rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, angry tears blurring his vision. “Yes, I _am_ scared to death of what I'll see, but I am _not_ letting that stop me! Maka is all I have left, and I _will not lose her!_ So just stop it! Stop trying to make me fail! _Stop it because I won't let you win!_ ”

 

Silence reigned for several moments in the Room, punctuated only by the scrape of claws on concrete and his own heavy breathing. It took several moments for the Wolf to regain its footing; its fur rippled as it did, racing red and blue until it settled somewhere in between, red-violet with a splashed mask of blue over its mismatched eyes. _And here,_ it panted, _I thought you might have understood the meaning of true courage._

 

He blinked. “. . . what?”

 

_Do you_ really _think you have nothing left to lose but your daughter?_ It regarded him thoughtfully. _Do you truly think she is the_ only _person you have left in this world?_

 

Confused, Spirit drew back a step, flattening himself against the wall. “What – what do you mean?”

 

_You do, don't you?_ The fight was gone; pity now ringed the Wolf's voice. _You foolish little boy. You're so afraid that you've convinced yourself you've lost everything, just so it won't hurt if you_ do _lose something else. You're letting fear take away your ability to hope._ It stood in front of him, ears drooping down. _You're letting Stein win._

 

“I-” Spirit bit his lower lip. There was nothing he could say. The worst part – and it hurt to admit it, even in his mind – was that the Wolf was _right_. “It's hard,” he finally muttered, shame-faced at the weak excuse.

 

_Yes. It is._ It turned its head back at the projector, at the boxes lined up around it, then back at him. _It is far more difficult than you can even imagine. You have_ s _o much to lose . . . and yet_ so much more _to hope for, so much to gain. Which will you choose, in the end?_

 

“I'm getting _really_ tired of your cryptic bullshit-”

 

The Wolf let out a tired sigh. _What is true courage, Spirit Albarn?_ The Room began to grow warm, his hands translucent; the dream was beginning to dissolve. _Think about it._

 

His voice cracked in desperation. “Just tell me what you _mean_ for once!”

 

_. . . I'll tell you this much, just this once._ Its eyes were the last things to fade, hanging in the darkness like sun and moon before fading into eclipse. _You may have won this battle, but the war has just begun._

 

*~*

 

“Spirit, will you stop pacing? You're getting on my nerves!”

 

The deathscythe stopped in front of a monitor, scanning over the readouts. “It's only been six hours since they left,” Azusa continued. “They just rendezvoused with the USAF an hour ago! You'd think you were the one stuck on a plane for ten hours, not the kids!” She rested her elbows on the low table Shinigami had provided, stabbing another slice of cake with her fork. “And-”

 

“Four more hours until they land in Rio. Thirty minute layover, expedited, before the Brazilian Army takes them by air fifty miles outside of Baba Yaga Castle. They'll go forty more miles by caravan, and the rest of the way by foot. Final contact to be made with us when they are five miles out from their target.” Spirit's voice was a monotone; his hands were clasped tightly behind his back, the fingernails digging into his palms. “Antarctic team is five miles out and waiting. Australian team is awaiting orders before the RAAF take them to their final destination. Chinese team-”

 

“Spirit?” Shinigami looked up from his tea. “You just briefed us on this thirty minutes ago.”

 

He raked a hand through his hair; from the way he winced, the gesture had to have pulled on something. “Sorry. I'm just – I-”

 

“You're worried about Maka.” The Reaper's hollow gaze fixated on him.

 

“. . . yeah.” The tone of his voice suggested that Maka wasn't the only thing he was worried about. A panel beeped; he leaned over and tapped it. “Ah, Shinigami-sama, it looks like the police force is just about finished with the evacuations. Looks like we're right on track.”

 

Azusa looked up, startled. “Evacuation? Of what, Death City?”

 

“Yup! Everyone's being sent by bus to Las Vegas except the most essential DWMA personnel.” Shinigami sipped at his tea. “We don't need civilians around if things get rowdy, y'know!”

 

“. . . rowdy? Spirit, what the hell is he talking about?”

 

Spirit turned to his Meister. “You mean you didn't tell her?”

 

“I didn't see a point. We don't know if it'll work or not, after all.” Shinigami shrugged. “I'm placing my faith in tools that haven't been used in centuries . . . .” He looked sidelong at Spirit, golden eyes glinting under the mask. “And in my friends.”

 

“The Magic Tools?” Azusa leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I was wondering why you were collecting them. It's common knowledge Joe's making something with them, but what nobody can figure out.”

 

Spirit leaned against one of the monitors, letting it support his weight. “Long story short, Shinigami-sama can't leave the city. The Magic Tools are going to help us circumvent that.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “You didn't really think we'd send a bunch of kids to take out Ashura, did you?”

 

“And Justin,” the Reaper added.

 

“Justin's still a kid, he doesn't count.”

 

Pushing her glasses up on her nose, Azusa flashed them both a glare. “You've had this plan for how long and didn't bother to tell me?! It would have helped when I was coming up with strategies to-”

 

“There's no guarantee it will work.” Shinigami folded his hands on the table and gave her an even look. “Even if it does, the fewer people who know about it, the better. I'd rather not have our enemy knowing what we have planned. I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings by not telling you, but I thought it best to keep it between myself, Joe, and Spirit.”

 

“But . . . how are you going to fight once you get there? We haven't-”

 

Spirit coughed into his fist. “I'm injured, Azusa, not an invalid,” he commented; she flushed red as the memory of having snarked those comments at him came back to her. “I wasn't there for Shinigami-sama when I should have been before; I'm not leaving him alone this time.”

 

A bell chimed; the three looked up to see the image of Kid flying in on his skateboard appear on the large mirror behind them. “Ah, looks like it's about showtime,” Shinigami said cheerfully. “Spirit, would you mind waiting up here and keeping an eye on things for me? I'll need to know when the evacuation is finalized. Azusa, meet me down in the dungeon if you want to see the fireworks.” He leaped up, clapping his hands together, and whisked his way out of the room as fast as he could, a little trail of dust following him.

 

Azusa lingered behind, worried eyes on her colleague. “Spirit? You're still in pretty bad shape,” she said gently. “Are you sure you're up for this?”

 

“I'll be fine,” he said. His faded blue eyes wouldn't meet hers. “I let him down once. I won't do it again.”

 

“. . . but if it gets you killed – ”

 

“It's our job to lay down our lives for our Meister, isn't it?” He reached out and brushed his fingertips against her shoulder, the slightest nudge for her to move along. “Why do you think Shinigami has you here, instead of on the battlefield?”

 

Even as she refused to acknowledge the idea, her eyes began to mist over. “Spirit Albarn-”

 

“Besides, I can't think of anyone better to serve as my backup in case something happens.” Spirit forced himself to smile, just the slightest quirk of the corners of his lips. “Now go on. You'll miss the show, and you know Shinigami-sama will be disappointed if that happens. Besides,” he added with a bravado he didn't feel, “It's the only action you'll get. Unless you count sweeping up Ashura's ashes, anyway. I imagine we'll make short work of him. You can just sit back and relax for a change.”

 

Azusa made a show of adjusting her glasses to hide her wiping at her eyes. “You're an ass, Albarn,” she said, smiling a bit.

 

“Yeah,” he said, turning back to the monitors to hide the trembling in his hands. “I know.”

 


	9. Harbingers of War

Chapter 9: Harbingers of War

 

The Death Room lurched; monitors swung wildly from their anchors or broke off their moorings completely to shatter on the floor. Walls shook; the table went flying; Spirit clutched at the large mirror in the center of the room and prayed it wouldn't slip loose as the earth quaked and groaned. “What the hell are you _doing_ down there?!” he shouted above the din.

 

“We're moving!” Shinigami's face filled the one working monitor, bright golden eyes beaming out from under the mask. Letting out a great whoop of joy, he moved forward; the world swayed and tilted down at a sickening angle. Spirit yelped and clutched the mirror tighter as he found himself dangling in mid-air. “It's _working_ , Spirit! _We're moving!_ ”

 

A crashing noise, and the deafening roar of jet engines – and the deathscythe was suddenly tumbling head-over-heels as gravity jerked in the other direction. “God _damnit_ , Shinigami, will you be more _careful!_ ” he swore as his broken ribs flared in pain.

 

Another burst of laughter from the Reaper. “Have _you_ ever tried piloting a _city_ before?! It's a lot harder than those cartoons make it look!” he crowed.

 

Spirit sat up with his back against the mirror and huffed a laugh. “You're going to get your license revoked at this rate,” he teased as the room around him settled into a swaying motion. “I think I'm going to get seasick . . . .”

 

“If you want my city-driving license, you'll have to come down here and take it from me.” Shinigami chuckled and swerved the city around; the crashing of furniture and panicked yelping of his spectators could be heard behind him. “Now . . . Spirit?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Which way are we supposed to go?”

 

*~*

 

Finding Medusa's lair had been the easy part. Days and nights of relentless travel on foot, by air, through desert and jungle and city slums, every moment growing closer fraught with nervous tension - that had been the easy part.

 

_Don't worry about Stein, Crona. Focus on distracting Medusa. She's what will keep us from succeeding._

 

Making plans – that was simple.

 

Standing there in front of Medusa as she lavished a mocking sort of 'love' on a catatonic Stein . . . Marie felt her Weapon blood boil, her body ache to transform and crush the child witch in front of her. Crona, beside her - “I'm here to stop you, Medusa.” - she was fiercely proud of him, standing up to his mother.

 

Even their defiance was easy.

 

“So,” Medusa asked from her perch in Stein's lap, “here to stop me and rescue Stein, huh? He's been happy here, haven't you dear?” Her childlike hand caressed his stubbled cheek; he didn't move. “Do you want to go with them?”

 

His head shook back and forth once, twice, three times in short mechanical bursts.

 

“See? I know you're jealous, but _do_ try to rein it in.” The witch laughed. “It makes you sound so desperate!”

 

Crona looked over to Marie, his thin frame trembling. “This isn't about _me_ ,” the deathscythe snarled. “This is about _him_ , and the people at home who _care_ about him – something I don't think you could _ever_ comprehend, Medusa!”

 

Medusa pushed herself to her feet, snake's fangs glinting in her smile. “Are they really going to be waiting for him with open arms? After all the _fun_ we've had?”

 

Marie's good eye widened. Her teeth ground together; flaxen hair began to wave aloft by the electric power thrumming through her body. She spared a single glance at Crona, his pale hand gripping Ragnarok – and then she shot off the brick with a battle cry, hammer arm crackling with power as she took aim.

 

Fighting Medusa would be easy.

 

Fighting the man she loved was going to be the hard part.

 

The witch leaped aside with a supernatural nimbleness; the brick crumbled under the blow. Stein didn't move, but to Marie's horror went tumbling below. Crona scampered after Medusa, sword aloft and stabbing at her. Marie landed atop another block, watching him clash against a tangle of Vector Arrows, and began to charge another attack. “ _Medusa!_ ”

 

“Don't think about attacking me,” Medusa snapped from across the room, slamming Crona into the ceiling with another Vector Arrow attack. “You have someone else to worry about.”

 

A hand reached up from the abyss and grasped Marie's ankle.

 

“. . . S- _Stein?!_ ”

 

*~*

 

he sits on a scalpel's edge

 

_(blood why is there so much blood on the floor on my hands on my **soul** where is it from who did I-)_

 

and the

 

_**S** hsssss **T** hsssss **A** hsssss **T** hsssss **I** hsssss **C**_

 

rakes over his eardrums, sweet sweet pain, and he relishes it

 

_(make it louder make it louder make me **forget** )_

 

because pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain and the snakes writhe around his ankles, dancing in the

 

( _I left him there I left him in the shadows Sempai lives in the shadows now and the shadows are-_ )

 

-screaming, the shadows are _screaming again-_

 

( _Stein,_ stop _this–_ )

 

and the scalpel edge begins to

tip

over

 

_(Please, no more, Stein, **please!** )_

 

the voices ( _Sempai_ ) scream and he clutches at his ears

 

_(he begged I marked him my blade my seed MY WEAPON marked mine how dare he leave how DARE he)_

 

and the

_shame_ /PRIDE

in the memory

 

_(the scent of burnt flesh, the taste of flesh breaking and coppery blood, the feel of a body writhing under him, the echoing cries of agony, the sobbing, the breaking, the **power** )_

 

roils up within him

 

and the broken wings lay at his feet even now, the wings he tore from his sempai's soul, and the power he felt then trickles

away

and he is so

 

_**H** hsssss **O** hsssss **L** hsssss **L** hsssss **O** hsssss **W**_

...

 

 

and the snake speaks

 

_she's back to watch you, Stein_

 

the screaming in his head is drowned out by

 

_**S** hsssss **T** hsssss **A** hsssss **T** hsssss **I** hsssss **C**_

 

_(Marie?)_

 

_Marie's back from the dead to watch you again_

 

Marie was

was

 

_D_

_E_

_A_

_D_

 

MaRiE marie MariE _**mARie**_

 

_(and she had watched again, watched him violate his sempai a second time, tears rolling from under her eyepatch, and **why did he feel**_ **so guilty** _for making her cry)_

 

her eyes, her eyes _hurt_ him so much

 

_he'll never stop screaming as long as she's here,_ the snake hisses

 

and he knows

the snake

is

RIGHT

 

*~*

 

Stein grinned his madman's smile at her, pupils shrunk to pinpricks under his matted tangle of hair. “You just won't leave me alone, will you,” he intoned, his voice suddenly rising into a shriek. “ _Why won't you leave me alone?!_ You're supposed to be _dead,_ _ **Marie!**_ ” He screamed, swinging her by the ankle across the chasm of the room; she slammed into a block and fell to one knee, panting.

 

“De- What makes you think I'm _dead?!_ ” Her hammer began to glow again. “Stein, I'm _alive_ , I'm _fine!_ ”

 

“Is she?” Medusa leaped over Ragnarok's blade; Crona was making little to no headway against her. “Are you sure she isn't here to get revenge?”

 

Stein went still. His hand went to the screw in his head; he clicked it counter-clockwise once, twice, three times, the screw making a horrible grinding noise. “Revenge for _what?_ ” Marie snarled, sparing the witch a glare. “Quit filling his head with lies!”

 

“You were _there_ , Marie.” One second Stein was across the room; the next he had landed next to Marie on all fours and was scuttling towards her like an animal. “You saw it in the mirrors. You saw it all!” His hands shot out, filthy nails digging into her wrist – and his soul wavelength tore through her, skewed and shrieking. “You saw me _break_ him!” he screamed as she convulsed. “You watched me tear his _wings_ off! But it was worth it, wasn't it? _Wasn't it?_ I saw inside Sempai's _mind_ , Marie!” She cried out; he threw her to the ground, stalking behind her as she rolled. One foot ground into her arm just above her Weapon. “I can see inside _yours_ too. _Just like him._ ”

 

Marie felt a little piece of her heart break. “Stein, please tell me you didn't . . . .” she whispered, staring up at him.

 

His head tilted curiously; behind them the clash of sword on sword rang out. His eyes were unfocused, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. “Sempai fought me at first, you know,” Stein said, and his voice was hollow behind his vicious, manic smile. “I don't think he even _knew_ how fast he stopped fighting and started _begging_ me to stop.” He hauled her up by the hair, his free hand grasping at her breast and squeezing until she cried out in pain. The gravely voice dropped to a whisper. “You kept watching – were you jealous? Do you want to be my next subject? Let me see _your_ mind, Marie!”

 

“ _Scream Resonance!_ ”

 

Ragnarok screamed, the sonic blast striking the unguarded Stein from the side. Marie wrenched herself from his grasp mere seconds before the blast hit; Stein was sent flying, his head cracking against the stone of the wall – cracking the stone with the force of his body striking it. “ _Miss Marie!_ ” Crona cried out, running towards her. “Are you-”

 

A gush of black blood spurt up from his side. Medusa landed beside him, giant Vector Blade balanced neatly in one small hand. “Now, now, Crona,” she mock-scolded as the child went tumbling. “I thought I taught you better than to interrupt the adults when they're talking.”

 

Stein staggered to one knee, blood running down the side of his face. Marie too balanced herself on one knee, bringing up her hammer arm and slamming it against the floor, sending a shockwave across that knocked the witch off her feet. “ _You did this to him!_ ” she screamed, tears welling in her visible eye. “You turned him into a _monster!_ ”

 

“I let loose what he already had inside him, Marie!” Medusa snarled back, a Vector Plate appearing below the deathscythe; she shot off across the room, barely managing to right herself before she smacked into the wall. “This is what he was _meant_ to be! Stein is doing what he's always wanted to – I just slipped the noose from his neck and set him free!”

 

“You're _wrong!_ Stein would never-”

 

“Never _what?_ ” She brought up the Vector Blade to clash with Ragnarok, sweeping the demon blade aside easily. Her serpent eyes were bright and hungry in the childish face she wore. “My, whatever could he have done that has you so upset? I thought he just wanted to leave his first partner something to _remember him by._ ”

 

Marie _howled_ , racing off the platform she had landed on and leaping into the air, her hammer arm glowing so bright it lit up the entire room. “ _How dare you?!_ ”

 

The child witch jumped to meet her. “Vector Storm!”

 

Arrows shot from her body, thick and fast; Marie crushed the first onslaught, but a second wave caught Marie in the stomach and crushed her against the wall. “You're outclassed,” she grinned, arrow after arrow rearing back and slamming into her. Marie began to cough up blood. “Give up now-”

 

Black flicked past her vision; a flash of pain, and the Vector Arrows were sliced in half, a gash opening up in the witch's upper arm. Crona held Ragnarok steady, the demon sword's blade glistening with a thin edge of crimson. “Stop it,” he panted. “Just _stop it_ already!”

 

Marie fell, limp; Medusa cut her eyes at him for the merest of seconds before blasting him with her soul wavelength. Crona screamed as she poured the jagged chaos into him. “You dare,” she hissed. “You _dare_ raise your blade against your _mother_ , you ungrateful little – I'm going to enjoy killing you, Crona!”

 

Crona coughed up blood; it spattered against the stone floor. “B- Bloody Needles,” he stammered, willing his black blood to harden.

 

It lay there in droplets, inanimate.

 

“Can't harden it, can you?” Medusa stepped through it, her child's feet staining black. “I've skewed your soul wavelength. You're useless now.” She hefted her Vector Blade above her shoulder. Behind her, Stein was staggering drunkenly towards them, manic grin widening at the sight. “Not that it's a change from how you've always been.”

 

Her child began to tremble, unable to raise his sword in his defense. Medusa smiled sweetly at him. “Time for you to die.”

 

She swung down-

 

“ _ **Medusa!!**_ ”

 

-and hit a scythe blade, fierce green eyes glaring death into her own. Maka snarled at her and kicked out, catching the witch in the stomach and sending her flying. “Crona, are you and Miss Marie OK?”

 

“I'm OK,” came the weak reply. Maka held out her hand; he took it, pulling himself to his feet. “But, Maka, how did you-”

 

“I looked. Really, really hard.” Her eyes scanned from Marie, who was slowly getting to her feet, over a wheezing Medusa to the mad doctor, who was staring at her vapidly. As she watched, his lips twitched into a grin. “. . . Professor Stein?”

 

He began to laugh. And laugh, and _laugh,_ the Madness echoing through the room. “Does Sempai know you're here, Maka~?” he asked, a dangerously playful edge to his voice.

 

Marie limped over to where the teens were standing, blood soaking her skirt from a wound in her thigh. “Maka, _don't_ ,” the deathscythe warned. “He's dangerous right now, you don't understand!”

 

“No, Maka, _do_ ,” Medusa taunted. “I bet no one's told you what kind of gift Stein gave your father before he left, have they? If you ask nicely, I bet he might tell you.”

 

“Maka?” That from Soul, his red eyes flashing at her from inside the scythe. “Maka, what are you thinking?”

 

The girl turned back to Stein, who was now just a few feet away from her. He smiled, all teeth, and licked the blood away from where it was spilling from the gash in his forehead. “Don't you want to know, Maka? I gave him a choice, you know. I was going to make _you_ do it instead, but he wouldn't let me.” His pupils dilated so wide the irises were swallowed up by them, black holes surrounded by white. “He begged me _on all fours_ to leave you alone.”

 

Crona huddled up closer to Maka, who was beginning to tremble. “What . . . what are you talking . . . .” She bit her lip, then suddenly charged at him with a scream, Marie hot on her heels. “ _Stop talking about my papa like that!_ ”

 

He laughed again, shrill and mad. Tears were pouring heedlessly down his cheeks. “You have your father's lips, Ma~ka~,” Stein singsonged, dodging the swipe of the scythe blade to grab the Meister by the arm. He pulled her close to whisper in her ear. “I wonder if you're as talented with them as Sempai is~?”

 

_Crack._ The flat of Ragnarok's blade struck him across the back of the head; Stein dropped Maka in order to dodge another sudden thrust of the black blade. “Take – your hands – _off_ of her!” Crona shouted, his eyes narrowed in real fury. The third thrust Stein grasped the blade; Soul Force raced through it, blasting the swordsman backwards.

 

Maka fell to the ground, ignored, Soul loosely gripped in her hands. Marie raced to her, pushing her aside before a shot of Vector Arrows could hit them both. “Maka, Stein's insane,” she said urgently. “Don't let him get to you! ”

 

“But-” Maka's hands shifted on Soul, tightening. She looked up at Marie, tears welling up in her eyes. “What is he _talking_ about? What did he _do_ to my papa?!”

 

Marie bit her lower lip, looking away. “Maka, we don't have time for this, not now. You have to keep it together or you're going to get _killed!”_

 

“R-right.” She took in a deep breath and rose back to her feet. “What's the plan? You have one, don't you?” Marie didn't answer. “ _Don't you?_ ”

 

“Oh my.” Medusa stood high above them on the highest stone pillar, Vector Blade swinging behind her. “Stein, why don't you be a dear and finish them off for me?”

 

“Follow my lead.”

 

“If you're really good, you'll be able to use them in your next experiment.”

 

Marie touched Maka on the shoulder briefly. “Distract him,” she murmured below her breath before launching herself at Stein again, glowing hammer at the fore.

 

“. . . Okay. Crona, Soul, let's go!” Maka's brow furrowed in concentration and charged. She swerved around Stein, skidding under his hastily-thrown Soul Force. Marie's swing down missed; Crona followed immediately behind with a wild thrust of the sword that ripped through his labcoat. A second later the floor beneath them exploded with the force of Marie's attack.

 

Stein flipped back, skidding to a halt at the edge of the stone block; the manic grin twitched. “So much noise,” he mumbled. He clicked his screw back another two notches in the wrong direction. “Why won't he stop _screaming_ . . . .”

 

Maka leaned against Soul, the scythe braced against broken rock, before dashing left. Crona hefted Ragnarok and took off right. Stein threw his hands up to block as the children aimed towards him; instead of attacking they crisscrossed paths. Their weapons crossed behind him, Ragnarok drawing in breath-

 

Stein whirled around, catching Witch Hunter between his palms and hanging grimly on as the Scream Resonance tore against him. “He screamed for me, Maka!” the madman roared as she bore down upon him. “He was mine first and I _broke him-_ ”

 

Maka's eyes narrowed into furious slits. “Break this.”

 

Glowing. Glowing behind him, Medusa's sudden furious shout, _Marie-_

 

Her hands wrapped around him from behind, her head on his shoulder. “ _Healing Wavelength._ ”

 

*~*

 

she falls

 

down

 

down

 

D

O

W

N

 

through blood and guilt

 

through

_**S** hsssss **T** hsssss **A** hsssss **T** hsssss **I** hsssss **C**_

 

through rage and pride and oceans of sorrow

 

down

 

down

to

 

 

 

_Stein_

 

*~*

 

 

She lands on her feet on a cobblestone road, the mortar stained red with old blood.

 

Lights flicker. Shadows dance.

 

Laughter behind her, a quiet whimper.

 

“. . . Stein?”

 

The world shifts, wavers. The tang of blood and sex is heavy on the air, static roaring; Spirit's house stands before her, the front door slightly ajar. Glass shatters and voices rage behind it. She takes a step towards it before a small hand grasps hers. “Don't.”

 

Marie looks down. She hasn't seen this face in many years, pale and withdrawn with cheeks still showing the slightest hint of baby fat – Stein, as he first looked when they were students at the DWMA. The child-Stein lifts his face to look at her, dull golden eyes flat and emotionless. “Don't,” he says again. “Don't go in there.”

 

Shadows from inside cross the window – the crackle of Soul Force, a body flying across the room – and eyes peer out for a second from within. Dull yellow eyes with slitted pupils, wavering with insanity, in a face she has loved from afar.

 

Stein's reflection grins at them before turning back into the shadows. Screams echo through the void.

 

She kneels beside the child-Stein. Her reflection stares at her from the lenses of his glasses – a woman long dead and rotting in the grave. “Leave, Marie,” he demands. “Go before you find out-”

 

“I already know.”

 

The screaming stops for a split-second. Only the static remains, a constant droning hiss. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice flat.

 

“Because I believe in you,” she says. The truth rings like a bell in the darkness; the streetlight behind them flares into life. “Because I want to hear your side of the story. And because I know it's not your fault.”

 

“Not my fault.” A humorless laugh escapes him. “So you think the Madness is solely to blame.”

 

Marie takes a step back. “W-well, yeah – Medusa made it so that being near me would weaken your resistance to it! Crona planted something in me that made it worse-”

 

“And I suppose Medusa gave me the urge to dissect my partner when we were students?” Child-Stein cuts his eyes at her. “Don't be so naïve, Marie.”

 

The screams fade into quiet murmuring behind them. “He was our greatest experiment,” the boy reflects. “The only partner we had who didn't treat us like a freak. We didn't understand other people – I didn't really give a damn about understanding other people – and then he came along. I suppose it's what it's like to have an older brother, having him around. He cared. He made us want to understand what caring was.

 

“And then that bitch Kami _ruined_ it.” He spits the woman's name out like a curse. “And they were happy. And he _hated_ him for leaving us behind with all these stupid _emotions_ he didn't understand and I hated him for the experiments I would never finish!”

 

Marie flinches as his childishly cruel smile is turned toward her. “. . . we? Stein, who-”

 

“We learned, though.” He steamrollers over her question, ignoring it; his shadow stirs behind him. “We figured it out on our own. When I saw him again, before we went after the demon sword . . . I taunted him about Kami. I used his emotions to make him hurt the way he'd done to us.” The sharklike grin twists into a look of agony. “And it felt _good_. It wasn't _supposed_ to feel good! It was wrong! All of it was – it got out of control and – and-”

 

Her one good eye focuses on him, sorrow lingering behind her gaze.

 

“Marie, don't look at us like that.”

 

She doesn't speak.

 

“You don't understand-”

 

The pity in her gaze burns at the shadows around him. The child suddenly grasps her with both hands and shoves her. She falls hard on the cobblestone, skinning her palms against the rock. “I wanted _you!_ ” he screams. He arches his throat – and she can see it now, the mark of a snake's fangs. “I wanted to go after you first, Marie! He wouldn't – he _couldn't_ hurt you, not _you!_ He'd kill Shinigami himself before he'd let me hurt you!”

 

Screaming. The static of the void crackles as blood begins to roll out of his shadow all around him. Screams that rend the air, coming from the boy's shadow– and Marie realizes with a start that it isn't Stein's Madness that has been staring out at them from the house .

 

His Madness is who she's talking to _right now._

 

“He couldn't control me. And if he can't keep me controlled, I could hurt _you_ the way I hurt Sempai! I started it, but he was there too, and he _wanted_ him to hurt, and I took that, and he –” He claws his fingers over his face, adding fresh blood to the ancient crimson that stains the cobblestone.

 

As she watches, horrified, his shadow begins to roil, thin wisps of smoke curling up from it – and it splits from him, a shadow-Stein rising up with grey-gold eyes full of regret. The shadow's voice is the one she knows, the one she loves, so full of confusion and hurt that it makes her heart ache to hear it. “It went _too far_ , and – and Spirit-” Shadow-Stein chokes. “Part of me didn't want to stop! Part of me _enjoyed_ it! It's _wrong_ and – and I _knew_ it was wrong! But every time I tried to get myself to stop, the Madness pushed harder and- I don't _understand_ why I couldn't stop myself! There's something _wrong_ with me, Marie, you have to _leave-_ ”

 

Static bursts again, a hiss of laughter. The streetlight goes dark.

 

Without thinking, she reaches out to touch the real Stein; the shadows quiver and slip away. “That's why you kept saying 'we', isn't it? Stein, your Madness isn't another person, it's a part of you! You can't just divorce yourself of it!”

 

The child-Stein – the Madness – stares at her. The shadow behind him, bound to the child, turns away.

 

“Yes, you have problems with Madness – but you'd never be as strong as you are today without it! It was learning to control it, to deal with people, that made you a stronger person! Now that you're pushing it away, you've let all your defenses down!” His soul wavelength lashes out, striking her a terrific blow; blood sprays from her lips. “Stein, listen to me!”

 

“I don't want it anymore!” His voice trembles. “I have to live with the consequences of this mess, isn't that _enough?_ ”

 

A spark lights up the deathscythe's hands. “You selfish bastard,” she breathes. “I came here to help you. Maka and your students – all those who looked for you for days because they loved you and wanted to make sure you were okay – Spirit, he has to _live_ with the scars and the memory and – and –“ She stutters. Electricity crackles around her, incandescent, and the static in the air instantly set ablaze into little pockets of silence. Even his Madness has to recoil from her fury. “And all you can think about is the consequences _you_ have to deal with?”

 

The child-Stein flinches. Stein - the shadow, his mind – draws up tight behind the boy. His eyes look to hers, the first hints of fear and regret flickering through.

 

“. . . do you think Maka would be here to help us if she knew the truth?” The two of the simultaneously take in a sharp, choked breath. “Don't you think Spirit could have turned her against you if he really wanted?”

 

The shadow-Stein blinks. His voice quavers just a tiny bit. “I want to – to – what do I _do_ , Marie? I don't know what to do _._ ”

 

“Silly boy.” Marie smiles at them fondly, her face aglow. “You accept it. All of it. All of yourself.”

 

“But-” The boy's voice cracked.

 

“I know. It's not a wound you can just sew shut. It won't be easy, but you have to face it all. You have accept it, and try to make amends.” Her arms, the golden glow of her soul, envelop them both – wrap the two sides of Stein's mind in her embrace. The static goes quiet as her inner light brightens the void. “And I'll be by your side the whole way. I promise.”

 

“Marie . . . ?”

 

A scream. The world begins to crumble.

 

“ _Marie!_ ”

 

*~*

 

“ _ **CRONA!!**_ ”

 

Her head snapped painfully against stone; Marie was instantly conscious, the real world coalescing around her. She was sprawled out feet away from where Stein now lay, Maka thrown the opposite direction, shoved aside by-

 

-Crona.

 

Crona, who had seen the attack from a furious Medusa and shoved Maka and Marie aside seconds before it hit.

 

Crona, who now dangled in mid-air as the Vector Arrow meant to kill them pierced straight through his chest and into the rock below him. He hiccuped once, blood black as coal gushing from his lips, before slumping forward. The Arrow vanished; he splashed down face-first into a pool of his own blood.

 

“. . . that didn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would,” Medusa mused over Maka's screams.

 

“Crona?! _Crona!!_ Crona, _stay with me!_ ”

 

“In fact, it didn't hurt at all.”

 

“ _Please_ , Crona, hang in there . . . .”

 

She turned her back on the scene, admiring her fingernails. “Well, Stein?” she asked the man as he began to climb to his feet. “Care to finish this?”

 

*~*

 

Marie

 

_Marie_

 

the snake _stole his_ _ **Marie**_

AGAIN

 

( _she's alive she's_ alive _my Marie she's_ _ **ALIVE**_ _)_

 

and in the

_flood_

of rage and grief

 

the scalpel blade

tips

over

 

_(scalpels and ether, needle and thread)_

 

and he looks

into

 

MADNESS/ _himself_

_(a mirror a puzzle Adam and Eve systolic and diastolic two halves of the equation)_

 

accept it

accept the Madness

for

 

_MaRie_

 

 

and even as he does he

knows

_(curiosityhateloveangerjoyfrustrationsatisfaction **theneedtoknow** )_

he cannot

be

( _silken hair satin voice the tingle of electricity after the rains – her smile her scent her SOUL_ )

 

WHOLE

 

without-

_(the static is gone the screaming is gone it's so_ quiet _now)_

without-

 

 

 

 

 

 

_**MARIE** _

 

 

*~*

 

Stein loomed over Medusa, manic grin lingering for a second before he grabbed the witch up by the face and hauled her to his eye level. The insanity in his eyes vanished. “ _Let's_ ,” he snarled, Soul Force crackling.

 

The blast sent the witch flying; she was only able to keep herself from crashing with the placement of a well-timed Vector Plate. Marie raced toward him, not daring to hope. “ _Stein . . . ?_ ”

 

He turned to her; she stopped just in front of him and didn't move as he gently curved a palm around the side of her cheek. “You're alive,” he said in a tone of wonder.

 

“And you accepted it,” she replied. Stein nodded once. Marie shook her head and embraced him, not letting go until he tentatively returned the gesture. “I was so afraid you wouldn't-”

 

“I was a fool.” Below them, Maka pressed her hands against Crona's chest, trying to stifle the blood flow. “We have to end this. Now. He's still alive, I can sense his soul, but I don't know if he can hold on for long.”

 

Maka looks up at that, all fury and righteous passion and tears. “Then let's finish this. For Crona.”

 

The professor glanced down at her, nodding once. Marie transformed, the heavy weight of her Weapon form held easily in his hand, and he jumped down to the girl's side. Across from them, Medusa was still shaking off the effects of the Soul Force. “Right. Can you manage a Resonance Link?”

 

Maka huffed. Resonance Link should have been hard, as furious as she was, with Medusa, with him – but this was Stein, and he could match nearly anyone. ' _Maka, Marie and I will draw her attention. You'll have to finish this in order to do it without killing the girl Medusa's possessing._ '

 

Medusa began to reshape her Vector Blade. ' _You suddenly care about not hurting people?_ ' She shot an angry glance at him, ignoring Soul's hiss of shock. ' _Fine. But I don't see how Witch Hunter will-_ '

 

' _Not Witch Hunter._ ' He launched himself at Medusa before she could fully recuperate. ' _Your mother's special technique._ '

 

The witch dodged, flipping backwards; she brought her sword down against the electrified metal of Marie's hammer. Sparks flew up in an arc around them. “You think the DWMA will take you back after what you've done, Stein?” she hissed. “You'll be lucky if the Reaper doesn't kill you on the spot!”

 

“He wouldn't have this to worry about if you hadn't interfered, Medusa!” Marie raged.

 

“He would have been safe with me if you hadn't interfered!” Medusa countered. “I gave him freedom!”

 

Stein swung the hammer forward, narrowly missing driving Marie's Weapon form into the little witch's stomach. “You ruined one of the greatest friendships I've ever known,” he said lowly, “and I will never forgive you for it.”

 

Witch Hunter flared into life behind them. “You plan to kill this host body just to get to me?” Medusa swiped at them, the blade grazing Stein along the side. “I'm flattered.”

 

“Hardly.” He pressed a hand against the wound – shallow and long, mostly a nuisance – before running back after her. “That's just the prelude. You really should have cut your losses back at the anniversary celebration, Medusa.”

 

“And let the Academy keep two of their most valuable resources? Please.” She smirked, serpent eyes glittering. “I should thank you for disposing of that idiot partner of yours. I haven't been that amused in a long time. You put on _quite_ the show.”

 

Stein's eyes lit up in a murderous rage. “ _You,_ ” he spat. “Enjoy it while you can, because it's all over.”

 

“ _Genie Hunter!_ ”

 

Maka leaped up behind her, rage and pain fueling the giant axe-shaped scythe attack in her hands; she swung her partner down in a whoosh that tore past Medusa and Stein, ripping through the air. “Don't ever touch my family again!” she screamed at them, tears streaming from her eyes.

 

The rock behind them split in two.

 

Medusa screamed – the _child_ screamed – and the witch was thrust out of the host body in pieces, a ragged projection that was being shredded alive even as she tried to speak. “I'll see you again, Stein,” she hissed, her 'body' unraveling. “ _I'll see you in hell-_ ”

 

Rachel fell to the ground, unconscious.

 

Maka let the Resonance drop; Soul dropped back into his human form a split second later, catching her as she began to cry.

 

Stein let go of Marie, who placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It's over,” she said. “Let's go take care of Crona.”

 

*~*

 

There was a distinctly annoying tapping coming from somewhere in the Death Room, and for the life of him Spirit couldn't figure out where it was coming from.

 

They were about four hours away from Baba Yaga Castle; the thrill of travel still hadn't worn off for Shinigami (and probably never would – the being had been locked in one spot for almost 800 years, after all). He and Azusa were taking turns in shifts watching the monitors and keeping tabs on the teams' progress around the globe; he had just awoken from a much-needed nap and sent her off to rest when the tapping began.

 

“Did something come loose?” he wondered briefly, ducking down –

 

–and coming face-to-face with a misshapen snout and beady black eyes.

 

“Gah!” Spirit jumped back, nearly falling over in shock.

 

“Fool!” the mighty Excalibur exclaimed, tapping his cane on the floor. “I've been trying to get your attention for years.”

 

“Ten minutes, maybe,” Spirit corrected, rolling his eyes, “and you would have got my attention a hell of a lot faster if you'd said something.”

 

“Fool! Of course I said something.” Excalibur tucked the cane under one arm and looked up at the redhead, beady eyes ever unblinking. “You just weren't paying attention.”

 

He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. Excalibur was one of the most annoying creatures on the planet, but Excalibur was also one of Shinigami's oldest friends, not to mention the ultimate Weapon, and years of dealing with Stein and Shinigami had built up his resistance against 'annoying'. “. . . sure, let's go with that. So what do you want? I'm kinda busy.”

 

The blank stare somehow grew more intense. “You plan to fight Ashura.”

 

“Shinigami-sama and I plan to, yeah.”

 

The creature leaned against one of the monitors, looking up at him. An unnatural silence fell over the room. After a few moments Spirit sat down on the edge of the dais. “Can I ask you something, Excalibur?”

 

“Fool!” He turned his head. “Of course.”

 

“What does courage mean to you?”

 

Excalibur tilted his head for a moment before leaping up on top of the tallest of the monitors. “My story begins in the eighth century!” he shouted with a flourish.

 

Spirit facepalmed.

 

“It was a dark and lonely time in England. I preferred coffee with my crumpets back then. And that was when I had my first Meister, Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon.” His voice lowered. “Uther didn't bathe as often as he should have.

 

“Yes, the great King Arthur was my Meister.” Excalibur paused, stubby arms stretched out in a dramatic pose. “And he! Was! A coward!”

 

The deathscythe blinked. This wasn't going quite like his usual nonsensical stories. “Your book said he was unspeakably brave,” he ventured.

 

“Fool!” Excalibur bopped Spirit on the nose with his cane. “I lied.

 

“Arthur was afraid of three-hundred and seventeen different things, including grey tabby cats with white paws, the color yellow, and oatmeal. He was also afraid of blood, and pain.” For a moment the oddball Weapon sounded wistful. “He was also always the first one out on the battlefield whenever there was a kishin to be fought.”

 

“I thought you said he was a coward.”

 

“Fool! Of course he was.” He sat down, little legs swinging against the monitor edge. “He was always afraid even when he had no reason to be. He just didn't let his fear stop him from doing what he knew was right.”

 

Spirit looked down at his hands, at his exposed wrists and the faint marks still visible there. “Being afraid and acting anyway,” he mused.

 

Excalibur glanced down at him, eyes shadowed by his omnipresent top hat. “Does that answer your question?”

 

“. . . yeah,” he said, tugging his sleeve back down over his wrist. “I think it does.”

 

*~*

 

“There. He's stable. He'll be fine until I can get him somewhere to do a better job.”

 

Stein tucked his lab coat a little tighter around Crona's still form, measuring the boy's pulse at his throat. “He's lucky to have the black blood, though. He wouldn't have survived otherwise.”

 

Maka made a soft unhappy noise at the back of her throat; Soul squeezed her shoulder. “Can you guys handle it from here?” he asked. “We should meet back with our group as soon as we can.”

 

“We'll be fine,” Marie assured them. “Rachel's fine, and the black blood can use any blood type – I can donate to Crona if he needs any while we transport him. I doubt he will, though. As soon as his wavelength recovers, he'll be able to harden his blood again.”

 

“I wish Sempai was here,” Stein murmured. “His ability to influence others' wavelengths would come in handy right now.”

 

“. . . Professor Stein?”

 

Maka's voice was trembling. Marie shot her a warning look. Her Weapon partner glared back at the deathscythe, keeping close to his Meister. “What did . . . you said you . . . you said such awful things and . . . .”

 

He sighed, reaching for a pack of cigarettes that wasn't there. “Maka, I'm not the one you should ask.”

 

“I asked Papa and he won't tell me!” She glared at him, hurt in her eyes. “Nobody will tell me anything! He's scared of everything and he's hurt so bad they called in an outside doctor and – and it's _your fault!_ What did you do to him?!”

 

Stein's face had turned pale below the stitches. “Maka . . . I'm sorry.” Beside him, Marie touched his hand in silent support. “I hurt your father, badly, and I'm sorry. But if he's not telling you what happened, then he has a reason.” He swallowed. “If it makes it any better . . . once I know Crona's no longer in danger, I'll be turning myself in to the Academy.”

 

Maka stared at him, then touched Crona's cheek briefly before turning away. “Let's go, Soul,” she said; they raced out of the room without another word, their footsteps a lonely echoing sound in the crumbling antechamber.

 

“We'd better go too.” Stein's voice was quiet. Marie reached up and brushed his hair from his face.

 

“Are you sure we should go back to the Academy?”

 

He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently, a faint smile playing on his lips at her choice of words. “Yeah. I think we should.”


	10. The Reason Why

Chapter 10: The Reason Why

 

*~*

 

The hilt of Spirit's Weapon form fell into Shinigami's hands, heavy and warm. No words needed to be exchanged; Spirit had gone to his Meister's side the second he appeared in the Death Room, transforming before Ashura had even hit the ground. If their union was still imperfect, if he was still a bit too warm or too heavy, the Reaper made no note of it. Instead, he glanced out the corner of his eye at the sleek black blade, eyes hidden under the mask, the question there in the tilt of his head and the cautiousness of his grip. _Are you ready for this?_

 

Spirit's face flashed in the metal, grim and determined; he met the other's gaze for a brief second and nodded once. _Don't worry about me._

 

“Ah, Shinigami. Did you really miss me this much?” The dust began to settle. Ashura stood out in the center of the graveyard, crosses destroyed by the crater his impact had made. “A shame I can't say the same. I was rather hoping we had seen the last of one another.”

 

“So was I. A pity.”

 

The Kishin snorted a laugh. “Regrets, Death?”

 

“I regret I didn't stop you earlier.”

 

“You should have tried harder.” The bandages split over his face, falling back to reveal three glaring red eyes framed in a strikingly handsome face; between the high cheekbones, Romanesque nose and the striped hair, the Kishin bore an uncanny resemblance to Death the Kid – if not to Shinigami himself. “I should be flattered you came all this way after me, but I'm not.”

 

Shinigami stared evenly at him. “I don't like making others clean up my unfinished business,” he said. “You are my failure, Ashura, and my responsibility. I thought I was granting you mercy by keeping you alive all those years – death was, after all, your greatest fear. Now I know better.” His voice dropped an octave. “You never deserved that gift.”

 

“You think you can end me now?” A thin smile spread over Ashura's face; he pointed one bony finger at the scythe in the other's hand. “With a broken Weapon like that?”

 

The Reaper shifted his grip, holding Spirit closer toward him.

 

“I know fear when I see it, Death, and your Weapon practically _reeks_ of it.” Ashura's eyes sparkled. “It doesn't take an expert Meister to see how damaged its soul wavelength is. I know you're a stickler for tradition, but _really_. You couldn't do any better than _that?_ ”

 

Spirit's reflection flashed in the metal, eyes taking on a silver tint as they glared at the enemy; his soul wavelength radiated an unnatural fury, a rage that couldn't quite cover the sudden wave of self-doubt and hurt. The Reaper met it with a soothing wave of confidence, reassurance. “You wouldn't understand my reasons even if I explained them, Ashura,” Shinigami replied, his oversized fingers tracing the hilt of the scythe. “I have the best possible Weapon to defeat you with, in him.”

 

“Sentimental old fool. You really believe that tripe you're spouting, don't you?”

 

The confidence, the pride the Reaper radiated in his DeathScythe never once wavered. He dropped down into a battle-ready crouch. “I tire of this. Spirit? Shall we end this traitor now?”

 

Spirit's reflection wavered, his eyes narrowing. _. . . Let's go._

 

*~*

 

The sonic boom of an explosion rippled over the rainforest. Maka stopped running, Soul balanced over her shoulder, and looked up at the towering height of Death City as it rocked above them. _Maka?_ Soul asked. _What's going on? What the_ hell _is the Academy doing on top of a robot in the middle of-_

 

“Shinigami-sama has Ashura in the Death Room.” She was still, eyes narrowed as she pushed her Soul Perception. “. . . they're fighting.”

 

_He's using your dad?_

 

She swallowed. “Yeah. I can sense Kid, Liz and Patty there, and Miss Azusa, but he's using Papa to fight with.”

 

Soul's red eyes stared down at her from inside the blade. _Are you OK?_

 

“. . . let's catch up with the others. We still have Arachne and her organization to deal with-”

 

_Maka._ Soul's voice was stern. _I can tell you're worried. What's going on?_

 

“He's not strong enough for this yet!” Her frame shook; Soul slipped from scythe back to human to stand at her side, hand on her shoulder. “It's not _safe_ for a Weapon to fight with internal injuries! And his wavelength is – he's so messed up inside and-” Maka clutched a hand around the ring and cross her father had gifted her before the mission, her face suddenly draining of all color.

 

“And what? Maka?”

 

She looked back up at the looming form of Death City, her eyes blurry with tears. “And he doesn't expect to survive this fight.”

 

*~*

 

The scythe blade whistled through the air, slicing through Ashura like paper. “Got you!”

 

_That was just an illusion!_ Spirit snapped, his reflection scanning the area as the body they had cut in half dissipated. _Above you! Shinigami-sama!_

 

The Reaper flicked up his hand; two thin beams shot through before a huge golden shield came into existence above him, lancing through his shoulder and across the blade of his scythe. He grunted in pain; a thin line of scarlet began to trickle from the base of the scythe blade. “Spirit!”

 

_Don't worry about me!_ He hissed the words through clenched teeth; small drops of blood pattered to the ground below them. _We've got incoming!_

 

The Reaper braced himself just as the tantric energy attack came barreling down. Sparks flew as the two beings threw the weight of their power into pushing the other back. Slowly Shinigami's shield gained ground – before a crimson burst from Ashura's Weapon Vajra detonated the earth around them, throwing up a great cloud of sand and rock.

 

“No! _Father!_ ” came the faint cry – Kid, with the Thompson sisters in hand, braced behind the dais next to Asuza; Excalibur stood in front of them, unaffected. Ashura's sharp gaze raked over them for a moment before he jerked back, the sharp double-edged blade of a scythe passing right where his face had been barely a second before.

 

“How's Vajra doing?” Shinigami asked, swiping Spirit's blade at Ashura again. His shoulder was ragged where the blow had come close to striking him; the scythe's blade was chipped along the outside edge. “Do you even think of what you've done to him? How he must feel, trapped inside of you, just to be your tool?”

 

Ashura skipped backward in the air, dodging the strikes as they came. “Do you stop to think of how a pen feels when you write with it? Really, Death, such foolish questions. When did you get to be so sentimental about Weapons? They're just tools, the only tools made by witches that ever proved useful – isn't that what you used to say?”

 

“. . . that was a very long time ago.” Shinigami paused, gently balancing the heavy weight of his Weapon partner in his hands. Golden eyes flickered from under the mask to look apologetically at Spirit's battered reflection in the scythe blade. “And I was very, _very_ wrong.”

 

The Kishin raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I think I see now. How _sweet_.” He smirked at the sudden furious look the Reaper shot him; Shinigami had to swing Spirit's hilt up to parry the rapid-fire blows that came to punctuate each taunt that came from Ashura's lips. “A Meister – and his _pet_ Weapon – bonding in the battlefield. Have you – taught it to do _tricks_ yet?” The wicked grin grew. “Do you punish it when it's naughty? Or did you get it already broken in-”

 

“ _Shinigami_ _ **Chop!!**_ ”

 

The overhand blow rocketed Ashura through the air at near sonic speeds; the entire room shook with his impact, a mushroom cloud billowing up from the crater. “If you don't watch your tongue I'll tear it out with my bare hands,” Shinigami snarled. He had dropped all pretense now, his voice a low husky growl that dripped with murderous intent. Oversized hands clasped the quivering scythe close, straining under the growing weight of it. _Stay_ with _me, Spirit!_ he commanded mentally. _Fear has always been Ashura's realm of expertise – he knows how to manipulate it in others!_

 

_How could he_ _ **know**_ – Spirit clung to his rage, letting it suffocate the swell of panic. _That son of a_ _ **bitch**_ _, he_ – _he_ –

 

_Focus, dammit! I_ _**need** _ _you wi-_

 

“. . . heh. There's the Grim Reaper I remember.”

 

A blast of light burst from the dust cloud; Shinigami threw up a hand to block it and was blindsided by a flurry of roundhouse kicks that sent the two of them flying into the domed ceiling. They hit with a crunch, Ashura racing through the air after them with his hands clasped. Chakras began to bloom beside him. “Do you still feel fear, Death?” he cackled. His soul wavelength exploded from beside him, lashing out at his still-stunned opponent. “Do you know fear now? _Do you?_ ”

 

The Reaper swung his scythe down, shattering the energy into a thousand ruby shards. “I don't fear you, Ashura,” he snarled, lashing out again. The cracked edge of the blade raked over the enemy's chest, opening a wide gash that sealed itself almost immediately.

 

“Maybe _you_ don't.” Long spindly fingers suddenly lanced out – and grasped Spirit by the blade. “But your Weapon _does_.”

 

And before he could pull away, Ashura clamped down. The crunch of hardwood snapping and metal crumpling was barely audible over the static of Madness, over Spirit's agonized screaming.

 

“ _STOP!_ ” Shinigami's free hand lashed out and grasped his foe by the throat, clamping down until Ashura was gagging for breath. A red tantric shield flew up, knocking them back; before Shinigami could fully erect a shield of his own Ashura had raised Vajra up out of his throat.

 

The white-hot blast shot through them; Meister and Weapon crashed into the ground so hard Death City itself rocked on its foundation.

 

Below him, the cloud of dust was still rising; Kid's cries drew little more than a scornful look. Ashura hovered over the two-story-deep crater, staring blankly down at them. “You know, being locked inside a bag of one's own skin for centuries gives a person a lot of time to think. You can guess what I thought about, I'm sure.”

 

One of the spikes on Shinigami's mask crumbled as he tried to sit up. His Weapon partner lay a few inches from his hand, the scythe blade dented, the arms of the olivewood hilt snapped and splintered. Crimson rolled in streaks from the cracks. He rolled over onto his side – the blast had obliterated part of his torso, putting him off balance – and grasped the end of the scythe's hilt. “Spirit,” he breathed, a note of desperation in his voice. “ _Spirit_ – ”

 

Through the broken resonance he could feel the other man's wavelength shift, a wave of pain and dizziness as he tried to maintain his form. _I – I'm here. Shinigami-sama, are you-_

 

_I'll be all right. I promise. Just hang in there._

 

“I didn't think of anything much at first. But 800 years . . . that's a long time to contemplate, don't you think?” Ashura watched them below, a sneer twisting his lips. “Vajra wasn't much company, so I had to make do with myself. It was rather enlightening.”

 

Shinigami scoffed.

 

“It wasn't exactly pleasant. The first 200 years or so were rather frightening. After that passed, though, I started reflecting on the nature of fear – not that I had much else to think about.” He landed lightly on his feet at the edge of the crater, bracing against his knees and leaning over to stare at his broken foes. “Fear is a strange thing, isn't it? Why do humans have it? Why do some suffer with it, and others take pleasure in it? What is the root cause? The last one was what really interested me. And I came to an interesting conclusion.”

 

“Oh, do tell, Ashura. I'm just _dying_ to know what you came up with.” _Listen to me. I can only keep him distracted for so long._ Shinigami glanced down, his golden eyes flickering like a candle, and swallowed hard. Spirit's form was shattered, his body gone through punishment that would have maimed or killed a normal man. The staticky undercurrent of pain that colored his soul wavelength – it was sheer determination that kept the younger man going now, when he was so badly hurt. Azusa was across the room, a deathscythe, and yet even she didn't have the ability needed for this battle.

 

By the sudden flicker of fear, the shudder that came over the broken Weapon . . . Spirit's reflection, tired and drawn, glanced at him from under the metal _._

 

_. . . you want to try Soul Resonance._

 

Above them, red eyes flickered over at the broken scythe, ignoring their silent conversation. “They _imagine._ They _conceptualize._ They torment themselves with _what ifs_ and _what could have beens_. And for what? There's no rhyme nor reason to what they do or why they live. There's no meaning. Just chaos and madness and questions that can _never_ be answered. Life is a game, and we are all just pawns, ready to be knocked off the board on a whim - why sit and worry over it, imagining what is coming next?” He laughed. “If that doesn't terrify a person, _nothing_ will.”

 

_I didn't anticipate him becoming this strong, Spirit. I'm so sorry._ He knelt over his Weapon partner and gently stroked a hand over the cracked metal. _If we don't take him down now-_

 

_Shinigami-sama . . . ._ Spirit's wavelength wavered as the Kishin grinned down at him before hardening in resolve. He met his Meister's gaze for a brief second – so afraid, and yet so determined – and nodded once. _I understand._

 

Shinigami hesitated, looking up over his wounded shoulder. “That's your solution, Ashura? To get rid of your imagination? I knew you were a coward, but not a complete idiot as well.”

 

“If you don't believe me,” Ashura said, “why not ask your Weapon? What kinds of demons roam its imagination? What monsters has it imagined to haunt it in the dark?”

 

The Reaper growled low in his throat – but faded silver-blue eyes flashed in the cracked metal of the scythe, staring up at the Kishin. “I don't have to imagine,” Spirit whispered. “ _My demons are real._ ”

 

_. . . Spirit –_

 

_We have to do it now, Shinigami-sama._

 

“But you still imagine others, don't you?” His voice was smooth, almost oily. “If you stopped imagining, it would all go away. No more fear; no more pain. Just Madness.”

 

_Shinigami! Do it **now!**_

 

The Reaper closed his eyes behind the mask.

 

“-what are you-”

 

“ _Let's go!_ _ **Soul Resonance!**_ ”

 

*~*

 

Pain.

 

_Pain._

 

And below the crimson, below the blood and burning . . . .

 

_**Despair**_.

 

( _“Every time someone touches you, every time someone looks at you-”_ )

 

It is not Resonance but _Dissonance_ , the full force of Spirit's broken psyche engulfing the Reaper in a hurricane of despair, tidal waves of shame crashing, _suffocating_ –

 

( _“-they'll know I_ had _you, Sempai, that I_ _ **broke**_ _you DOWN –”_ )

 

Voices in the darkness, in the void between souls. Fury and Madness, hatred and bitterness, the scratch of a needle on an old phonograph, replaying over and over and over –

 

( _“I made you_ _ **fear me**_ _.”_ )

 

And it is there amidst the sea of sorrows that the Reaper finds him, a small flickering light drowning in the shadows.

 

_i can't make it stop,_ Spirit murmurs, curled inward against the ever-encroaching tide.

 

_i failed my family. i failed myself._

 

Shinigami watches for a moment, aching inside. They are so mismatched, he with his enormous strong soul and Spirit with his tiny shattered one, and yet . . .

 

And _yet . . . ._

 

(Spirit), Shinigami whispers, cupping the little soul in his hands.

 

And in that moment, their souls speak, and he feels whole.

 

*

 

 

_it's so cold._

(If you're cold, then let me warm you.)

 

_why is it so dark?_

(Let me be a light to guide you.)

 

_there's so much pain._

(I will heal your wounds.)

 

_i'm so afraid, please, help me!_

(Then I will fight beside you.)

 

_please don't leave me alone-_

(Just trust in me.)

 

_. . . trust . . . ?_

 

Gold-flecked eyes, so kind and understanding even now. ( _Gray-gold eyes, leering down over him._ ) That gentle, empathetic smile. ( _Blood-flecked teeth glinting, biting down, crazed laughter._ ) The radiating warmth of his soul ( _The chill of a soul lost to Madness._ ), emotion so familiar, so frightening yet so comforting, something he hasn't felt in years –

 

Trust, broken so many times, in so many ways, by so many people . . . except one.

 

_for the one who believed me . . . for the one who_ still _believes in me . . . ._

 

_*_

 

Spirit's soul flickers bright in his Meister's hands.

 

_i trust you_ , he says, his voice soft. _i trust you, Shinigami-sama. always._

 

*~*

 

“ _ **Kishin Hunter!**_ ”

 

The crater flashed; Shinigami leapt into the air, the serrated edge of the Kishin Hunter blade glistening in the light.

 

“-it can't be!” Ashura fled to the air, dodging the first strike of the aurora blade. “ _How?!_ I _broke_ it! I broke that stupid blade of yours!”

 

“You've broken nothing but my patience,” the Reaper snarled, swinging overhand.

 

The Kishin dashed backward, desperately weaving to avoid the deadly Resonance attack. “Temper, old man. Are you mad because I'm winning, or mad because I'm _right?_ ”

 

“You coward,” Shinigami spat. “You spend all your time hiding from your fears, or thinking up new ways to outrun them, like a mewling infant. I partnered you with Vajra to help you conquer your fear and what did you do?” He swiped out, the edge of the scythe passing through his hair. “You betrayed him! You were too weak to be brave around your own partner! You spent so much time being afraid of nothing that you couldn't see you were becoming a monster, you idiot! I should never-”

 

“Never have spawned me?” Ashura's eyes narrowed to slits. “Is that what you want to say, _Father?_ Go on. I _dare_ you.”

 

“You – ungrateful – whelp!” He swung upward, reversing the scythe in midair – and the aurora blade sank into Ashura's side, slicing his right arm cleanly off. Black blood slid off the serrated blade, hardening into spikes that bounced off the reflective edge. With a grunt he pushed the younger being's body off of the blade and watched him slide to the ground in a crumpled heap.

 

Ashura lay still for a moment; a newly-minted arm erupted from the bloody stump as the wound on his side closed. “Well. That answers that question.”

 

“What do you plan to do with the world, Ashura? Once it's destroyed and there's nothing but Madness left? What then?”

 

He smiled, dancing back over the field of grave markers and into the air. “I rather thought Madness was enough.”

 

Shinigami narrowed his eyes; a flick of his wrist and the Kishin Hunter blade tripled in size, casting a multicolored shadow over the Death Room. “There's no reasoning with you. You're too far gone.” He shook his head once and raised the scythe. “I never wanted it to end like this, but I don't have a choice. Goodbye, Ashura.”

 

“. . . you're not the only one who's been Resonating with their Weapon, you know.”

 

Shinigami's eyes went wide.

 

“And I think you're saying goodbye to the wrong son.”

 

A beam of white-hot energy erupted from his throat, searing the air as it raced towards the dais – towards Kid and Azusa.

 

“No!”

 

The Reaper flashed down to the center of the room at a supernatural speed, knocking his son and the female deathscythe back, and spread his arms wide. _Shinigami-sama, what are you_ _ **doing?!**_ Spirit screamed from within the blade. _You'll get yourself_ killed _!_

 

_Spirit, I know that attack! It would kill you to block that shot!_

 

_A Weapon is supposed to die for his Meister! I knew this could happen! You can't throw it all away; the world_ needs _you, Shinigami!_

 

He closed his eyes against the blinding light. _Dammit, Spirit_ _, I need_ _ **you!**_

 

A muttered curse, and his hand was suddenly empty – he saw bright light reflecting off of dozens of blades, felt warm arms wrapping around his body, and then . . . .

 

*~*

 

Running footsteps. A shrill scream.

 

“They're not breathing! Oh God, _**they're not breathing!!**_ ”


	11. Walls Come Tumbling Down

Chapter 11: Walls Come Tumbling Down

 

*~*

 

_For a time, there is just darkness._

 

Thump . . . thump.

 

_Pain is a distant thing, felt through the filter of time. The only thing he can taste, smell, feel is the color red, red, the color of life, coppery and bitter; the red slides away from him, pools underneath him, pulls the warmth from the furnace of his body. There's a faint drumbeat in his ears,_ thump thump-thump thump-thump ra-ta-ta-tat thump _– the echo of a heart struggling to beat in a credible rhythm. Even fainter in the background is a thread, a light shimmer – the soul wavelength of the Reaper, still hanging onto him._

 

Thump . . . . . . . _th_ -thump.

 

_Voices crackle through the darkness. Rising panic, terror, grief, and he wants to reach up and tell them,_ It's OK, I'm only dying, _but he cannot feel his body._

 

Th-thump.

 

_And part of him is okay with that. He has failed for the final time, and cost them all the world. Cost his Meister everything. Deprived his daughter of a future. But he is **so** tired, and he has been fighting for so very long, and he is tired of the nightmares, tired of the scars that itch and ache and remind him every moment of the day what he is and what lows he's sunk down to. Tired of jumping at shadows, of being afraid of the dark and what monsters it might bring. Tired of being weak. Tired of hating himself._

 

ra-ta-ta-ta-

 

_Tired of seeing no way out._

 

Th . . . . u . . . . mp.

 

_Lightning crackles across the darkness, blue-white; his heart gives a sideways jerk and the lightning crashes again, blasting through him and bringing the distant pain up front and center._

 

Th . . . thump.

 

_But the **other** part of him . . . that damned stubborn fool that still clings desperately to the distant thrum of the Reaper's soul wavelength . . . ._

 

Th-thump.

 

_(Resonance. Shinigami's hands cradling his soul. Emotion so strong, so open and warm,_ what did he mean he needed me I don't _understand_ _– )_

 

Thump-thump.

 

Thump-thump.

 

Thump-thump.

 

_That other part **just won't give up**._

 

*~*

 

Sound was the first sense to come back to him. Hushed voices echoed throughout the room, as if in fear of speaking too loudly.

 

“Have the other teams reported in yet?”

 

“Not since Australia contacted us. We're still awaiting word from Europe and Africa.” A grunt – male, deep-voiced. “China took a lot of casualties, but not nearly as many as we did here . . . .”

 

Australia. Why was that so familiar, and why did it seem so important? His mind was in a fog, memory muzzy and scattered; he cracked his eyes open a fraction and immediately squinched them shut against the bright light.

 

“. . . not as many fatalities as we'd feared, thank God.” Female voice . . . Azusa? Azusa. Petite, annoying Azusa; he could imagine the light glinting off her glasses as she spoke.

 

“Where's Justin? Shouldn't he be up here?” And that was Sid? He opened one eyelid just a sliver to see a blue-skinned man cross his arms over his chest. Yes. Sid. And next to him was Joe, fidgeting with the pockets on his cargo shorts.

 

“He's gathering the wounded and bringing them back here. We're running out of room to keep them all, though.” Azusa sighed, her voice low. “Brazil's giving us some help, but the neighboring countries are refusing to provide assistance.”

 

Sid snorted a laugh devoid of humor. “There's a Kishin sitting right there on their border. Can you blame them for not wanting to get too close?”

 

“. . . Papa?”

 

Spirit opened his eyes as a shadow fell over him; Blair was hovering above him, her catlike pupils narrowed in concern. “You're awake,” she murmured.

 

His whispered reply was muffled by the oxygen mask strapped to his nose and mouth. “Shh, don't try to talk. Just nod or shake your head, OK? You're-” She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “You're _really_ hurt.”

 

He nodded ever-so-slightly, eyes roaming about as his memory began to swim back up to the surface through the fog of what had to be heavy medications. The fight with Ashura. The Kishin trying to take out Kid and Azusa. Shinigami-sama's idiotic stunt-

 

_Shinigami-sama!_

 

Eyes wide, he struggled to move and couldn't- his left shoulder bloomed in agony as he shifted weight onto it, and no matter how he tried his arms weren't strong enough to even lift himself up. The only one he could even move was his right hand, scratching uselessly at the floor. “Stop!” Blair hissed, hands on his bandaged chest to hold him down flat. “You're making your wounds worse!”

 

Panting, he let his head fall back against the floor. His eyes darted around; multicolored wires traced up from under her hands to a hard shell case on the floor to his left. Two paddles rested in cradles below a steadily moving monitor – a cardiac monitor, silenced, tracing the slow, slightly irregular beat of someone's heart.

 

A defibrillator. Used. Monitoring him.

 

Spirit closed his eyes and turned his head away from the rhythmic green light. “Shi-”

 

“Papa?”

 

He tried again, forcing his voice out despite the knifelike jab that cut through his chest. “Shi- gami?” Faded blue stared at her from under long red eyelashes.

 

Blair blinked. “. . . Shinigami? Oh!” She smiled, shaking her head. “He took a big hit, but they think he'll be okay.”

 

'A big hit' was an understatement; DeathScythe turned his head and stared past the defibrillator to the tattered inky mass stretched out on the ground. Shinigami's body was a wreck, torn apart; half his mask had been vaporized in the blast. An IV was pumping fluids into him (next to that was one pumping blood into his own body); the Reaper even had his own retinue of nurses, Risa and Arisa, though neither seemed to have any idea of what else to do for him. “The funny little guy with the big nose said it wasn't as bad as it looked,” Blair offered. “Excaliper, I think? He just said to give him rest until he regains consciousness.”

 

Spirit stretched his soul wavelength out and felt Shinigami's faint one, the junction of their souls still humming in Resonance. Tired, depleted of energy, wounded, yes . . . but he would live.

 

His Meister would live.

 

“Blair – I-”

 

Shinigami's mask cracked.

 

The Resonance that had seen them through the battle of their lives snapped in two.

 

And for just a second, Spirit's heart stopped beating.

 

*~*

 

“We don't know what's going on down there! They could be-”

 

“Don't say it, Azusa.”

 

“What? That they could be _dead_? You know it's possible! Wishing it weren't won't make it so, Sid!”

 

“H-hey, you two, shouldn't we calm down? We can't even see what's going on down there. There's no sense speculating if we don't know!”

 

Azusa crossed her arms over her chest, scowling; Sid turned his head away from her and the placating Joe to look out the enormous hole Ashura had blasted in the wall of the Death Room. A seething black sphere of Madness surged and spun atop the remains of Baba Yaga castle, thick and impenetrable, its red aura lighting up the stormy sky. “As far as we know, nothing's happening,” the female deathscythe muttered. “They could be having a damned _tea party_ for-”

 

“. . . S-something's happened.”

 

All three heads shot up at the sound of the weak, rasping voice. Spirit sat up behind them – or, rather, he was being propped up by a worried Blair. His right hand was weakly grasping at his oxygen mask, pulling it away enough that his voice could be heard. Crimson stained the bandages encasing his ruined shoulder, the sides of his torso, and yet his eyes were bright and feverish. “Spirit!” Azusa exclaimed, a hand covering her lips. Her jaw worked for a moment, as if trying to find her voice. “You – oh, _Spirit._ You should be-”

 

He wriggled his left shoulder as if to raise that hand, grunting in irritation when nothing responded other than a bright hot flare of pain. “Something happened,” he repeated, letting the oxygen mask cover his mouth and breathing in before speaking again. “Shinigami-sama's mask . . . cracked. Just now.”

 

Sid shook his head. “That doesn't mean anything happened, DeathScythe. He's injured.” The zombie looked almost ill as Spirit tried again to move his shoulder, a frown crossing his features for a moment. “So are you. Haven't you noticed-”

 

“ _Fool!_ ”

 

Excalibur swung his cane hard – Sid had to bite back a curse as it whacked him in the shins. The creature glared hard at him before turning back to the group. “It means something very important happened. Did you not feel it?”

 

Spirit nodded once, slowly. “Broke our Resonance.”

 

Joe's eyes narrowed further; he tilted his head at one of the cabaret girls, who began adding another medication to Spirit's IV line. Excalibur leaned forward on his cane. “I thought you might. Have any of you heard of the Lines of Sanzu?”

 

“They're what mark a shinigami, aren't they?” Azusa glared down at the little Weapon. “What does that have to do with our current situation?”

 

He turned and glanced at Spirit, who was clutching his oxygen mask with his right hand and trembling. “. . . before I deign to answer any more questions, I require tea!” Excalibur sat back in the only chair still remaining in the room, stubby hands behind his head. “It must be a mix of oolong and jasmine, and all the tea leaves must have been hand-picked by a colorblind macaque named Rodriguez!”

 

A collective set of groans rose up from the room. “Are you sure some coffee wouldn't work?” Joe asked. “I finally got some Mandheling coffee beans-”

 

Excalibur lifted a surprisingly intact mandolin out of the rubble of the Death Room and pitched it at Joe. “Fool! I said tea-”

 

“. . . _enough!_ ”

 

The harsh reprimand dissolved into labored coughing; Azusa knelt by Spirit's side even as Blair began to gently rub his back. “Spirit, calm down. You're not in any condition to be exerting yourself!”

 

He shook his head almost violently. Shaking fingers lifted the oxygen mask enough for him to spit out a mouthful of dark blood. “Where . . . where's Kid?” he managed when he had caught his breath. “The Kishin? Where . . . ?”

 

Sid glanced over his shoulder. “DeathScythe, you need to rest. Let us take care of-”

 

“The bylaws of the DWMA state that if Shinigami is ever incapacitated,” Excalibur interrupted, “then the _lead DeathScythe_ is in command until such time as he recovers.” Beady eyes fixated on the Meister's blank face. “Am I wrong?”

 

He turned enough to give the little Weapon a stony glare. “Even when he's half-dead himself?”

 

“ _Sid._ ” The female deathscythe's voice was unusually soft. “He deserves to know.”

 

“. . . fine.” Azusa placed a soothing hand on her colleague's uninjured shoulder. “. . . after you failed to stop him, DeathScythe, Ashura blew a hole in the wall of the Death Room and escaped.” Sid's voice, flat and emotionless, echoed in the ruins. “We think he ate the witch Arachne's soul. After that, he erected a barrier on top of the castle, and he's been sitting in there ever since. We don't know what's going on in there.”

 

Spirit slumped back against Blair; she combed a hand through his hair, holding the oxygen mask up for him. “Kid?” he asked after a moment.

 

“Kid took Liz and Patty and went after the Kishin. He's in the barrier.” The zombie relented, unfolding his arms and turning around. “He's not alone. Two other Meisters went in with him.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Black*Star went in with Tsubaki. And . . . .”

 

Spirit's face turned paper-white under the mask. “Maka?”

 

Sid nodded. “Right after Kid and Black*Star got in. It's sealed now – we've tried to send people in there but nothing's worked.”

 

Faded blue eyes darted over the group and their avoidant gazes before looking pleadingly at Excalibur. “I cannot tell you the outcome of the fight,” the little creature said, bowing his head respectfully. “Only time can do that.”

 

He closed his eyes tight, trembling. “Spirit, they're the strongest students at the Academy,” Azusa said, a hand rubbing his good shoulder. “With Maka's anti-magic wavelength-”

 

“Contact the . . . Brazilian military. NATO forces,” Spirit rasped. “Any wounded that can be moved . . . evacuate. Emergency protocol Delta-Three-Zulu.”

 

They stood there in surprise for a moment before Azusa jerked her head at Joe; the engineer nodded and jogged towards the doors. “Joe's going to make the call,” she said. “Is there anything else? You really need to rest-”

 

“Will you . . . fight?”

 

Spirit's exhausted gaze fixed on them, on the deathscythe and the zombie Meister; they glanced at each other and nodded their heads. “You know we will, DeathScythe,” Sid said.

 

“You don't even have to ask,” Azusa said with a determined nod.

 

“I'll help too, Papa,” Blair added. “We can still win. You'll see.”

 

Excalibur watched them from his seat, unnaturally quiet. “Fools,” he murmured, turning away to stare out at the horizon. Below them all, Ashura's barrier rippled, crackling with Madness; above them, the first faint booms of thunder rolled.

 

*~*

 

“What happened h- hey, I'm talking to you! What happened here?!”

 

Men and women in military uniforms streamed in pairs from the towering mountain that was Death City, each carrying one of the wounded away on a stretcher. Helicopters from various military organizations – Brazil's army, the United States, even NATO – took off from the clearing once they were full, only for others to soon land and take their place. The medic Marie had grabbed halted for a brief second, eyes narrowed and a hand above his firearm. “Who are you?” he asked in heavily accented English.

 

Stein, behind her, had gone almost slack-jawed as he stared up; he cranked the screw in his head twice, three times with his free hand, before shutting his jaw with a click. Crona, hanging limp over his shoulders piggyback, looked up at him in confusion. Marie pulled a thin wallet from the bosom of her dress and flipped it open to show the medic. “... ah, you are DWMA. My apologies.” The man saluted her briefly before moving to return to work.

 

“W-wait! What's going on?”

 

“You do not know? DeathScythe called for an evacuation. All the wounded are to be removed from the area.”

 

Stein stepped forward. “Something's wrong, Marie. Sempai's wavelength – it's too weak. I almost can't feel it.”

 

Her brow furrowed in concern. “Why are they evacuating? Shinigami-sama and Spirit should have-”

 

The man frowned and pointed at the giant mass of black swirling in front of what was once the mobile Death City. “The Kishin is in there, miss. Your Shinigami wasn't able to stop him.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry - I have to return to work.”

 

None of them paid any attention to his leaving; Marie turned to Stein, her good eye brimming with tears. “Stein? They couldn't really have failed, could they?”

 

For a fleeting moment she thought she saw emotion cloud his eyes. As soon as it came it vanished, and the mad scientist pursed his lips in a scowl before sprinting towards the city, Crona still clinging to his back. “Wait! _Stein!_ ” Marie tore through the dense jungle brush after him. “Stein, you have to _wait for me!_ ”

 

As if by a miracle, he stopped, Crona hanging on to him by the throat. “Sempai . . . you can't feel it, Marie, but I can,” he ground out. His eyes began to pulse in time with the waves of Madness pouring off the Kishin's dark cocoon. “He's _dying_ up there, and it's-”

 

The darkness exploded.

 

Shreds of Madness floated away through the air like bits of ash and soot; the stormy clouds above swirled and burst open to cerulean skies. Thousands of tiny twinkling blue lights scattered across the heavens, pulsing – souls entrapped for hundreds of years, finally, finally set free, dancing through rays of warm sunlight. Marie and Crona, all the aid workers, everyone stared up in wonder as the oppressive weight of the Kishin's Madness dissipated, leaving behind air sweet and uplifting. “Oh, Stein,” she whispered, slipping her hand in his. “How – how did-”

 

“They did it,” he murmured. Even he, ever the scientific one, was transfixed by the display; he squeezed her hand gently. “Kid and Black*Star and Maka . . . they're up there. I can sense their soul wavelengths. They must have been the ones to defeat him.” His peaceful look faded. “I have to get to the Death Room. You should take Crona to the Dispensary-”

 

“I go where you go, Stein.” Her hand held his with an iron grip. Crona nodded behind him.

 

He turned. “Your choice,” he said, taking off at a sprint, Marie right behind him – but if he held onto her a bit tighter, or if he kept his pace down enough that she could stay at his side, she didn't say a word.

 

_*~*_

 

The skies were a dizzying blue, souls sparkling in the sunlight – Excalibur sat back in his chair and sipped reluctantly at his coffee as Sid and Joe peered out from the hole in the wall over the landscape.

 

“. . . they're alive,” Sid said, and there was unmistakeable relief in his voice. “They're all alive. Ashura's gone, DeathScythe, Maka's fine . . . it's over.”

 

Spirit stared up, pale and trembling. “Over?”

 

“And thank goodness for _that_ ,” said a cheerfully nasal voice behind them all. “I was a little worried for a moment there!”

 

The entire group spun around in shock; Shinigami stood behind them, his body still in tatters and his mask still shattered, but very much alive. Even Spirit, who was still being supported by Blair and Azusa, tried to turn around. “Sh-Shinigami-sama?” he rasped.

 

The Reaper swiveled around, his expression never changing as he looked down at his wounded Weapon partner. One oversized hand reached out and ever-so-gently pushed bloodstained red hair out of his face. “Spirit,” he whispered, his voice dropping low with grief. Something almost electric pulsed between them, the resonance of old companions relinking. “You _idiot._ ”

 

The faintest of smiles played over his lips, barely visible under the oxygen mask, before his eyes slid closed. “Papa?” Blair cried as his body went limp in her arms. “What did you do?!”

 

“Blood loss. He's unconscious.” Shinigami knelt and lifted his Weapon partner up into his arms, wobbling slightly under the weight. “It's better if he is, for what's coming next.” His voice gained a flinty edge. “Or were you hoping to see his reaction to you, Stein?”

 

The mad scientist stood at the threshold of the Death Room, staring at the bloodied figure in the Reaper's arms; he didn't even seem to notice the blank stares, or the confused looks Azusa and Joe were giving each other. Crona hid his head behind him. “Shinigami-sama,” he began in a tremulous voice.

 

“Marie.” The Reaper turned his ruined half-mask to stare at her as she came up along side Stein. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill him right now.”

 

“Shinigami-sama!” Azusa gripped him by the arm. “That's going too far! Over a _fight?_ ”

 

Stein glanced at her in confusion. Shinigami glared at the two of them before turning back to Marie, who had placed herself protectively in front of her Meister. “ _Well?_ ”

 

“Marie.” Stein placed a hand on her shoulder.

 

“ _No._ ” She raised her chin up in defiance. “We did _not_ get rid of Medusa just to have it end like this.” She met the Reaper's gaze head-on. “Do you think Spirit would _thank_ you for killing him? Really? If you honestly think that's what he would want, then go ahead and _try_.”

 

Shinigami glared her down for a moment before turning his head. “Sid, take Stein into custody. I want him secured.” He refocused on the unconscious figure in his arms, giant gloved hands shielding him from Stein's eyes. “Is there anyone in the Dispensary who can treat the wounded?”

 

“NATO has dispatched three teams of field surgeons.” Joe backed away as Sid stepped forward, gently helping Crona down onto Marie's back. “First team's ETA is in thirteen minutes. They'll be setting up there. I've already informed them about DeathScythe's . . . condition; they're sending specialists-”

 

“Let me help.”

 

Stein was still staring at the bloodied mass of bandages that was Spirit's chest and shoulder. “I know him better than any specialist. If you let me-”

 

“ _You will never touch him again._ ”

 

“. . . come on, Stein,” Sid said almost gently, tugging at his arm. “Orders are orders.”

 

He stared at the tall, imposing figure of Death holding the man he once called brother, at the woman he loved, then took a deep breath and followed as he was pulled away.

 

*~*

 

“ _Spirit.”_

 

_A concrete ruin, walls falling apart. Arctic winds, stars barely visible in the void, trees whispering secrets in the dark. A lupine figure atop the rubble, mismatched gold and silver eyes, lit up by the rolling projector._

 

_Ghostly figures, out of focus, as the reel plays._

 

“ _You have to be brave now, Spirit. Your true enemy is here.”_

 

_The gleam of a surgeon's blade._

 

“ _And I name thy enemy FEAR.”_

 

 


	12. Broken Wing

*~*

 

The cell door creaked open, flooding the tiny cramped space with light; Stein didn't lift his head as Marie entered the room and hung a little gas lamp on the wall. “Hey,” she said softly. “I brought you dinner. It's just an MRE, but it's better than nothing.”

 

“Leave it.”

 

“I'll do no such thing.” The petite deathscythe made a face. “For one, how are you going to eat when you're all bound up like that?” The bonds - the same kind as Medusa wore during her captivity – slid off him at that; Marie rolled her eye heavenwards and sighed as she sat down. “Oh for – fine. Just put them back on before the guards do their rounds later tonight, OK? I really don't want to get into trouble again.”

 

He grunted his assent and slipped the MRE package from her hands. “. . . Crona's healing well. Faster than he should be, but that's probably the black blood,” she said as he tore into one pouch and listlessly shoveled the bland food into his mouth. “He's been asking about you. A lot of the kids have. Kim Diehl said to tell you 'everyone misses you', which I'm pretty sure means she has a crush on you.” Stein paused long enough to stare at her from under his ragged mop of hair. “Oh, come on. I think it's cute.”

 

“Cute.” He grabbed a bottle of water and popped the cap off, chugging down half of it before looking her in the eye. “How are they??”

 

“Shell-shocked. Even the EAT students who've been in heavy situations before are having a hard time coping, I think.” She brushed her hair back out of her face. “Not that this is easy for anyone to deal with. The UN and NATO have been offering assistance. Our medical division is tied up with all the other sites, but they're supposed to reconvene here once Shinigami-sama takes the city back to where it belongs.”

 

The scientist tossed the empty MRE pack aside, his gaze dropping to the side. “Has there been any change in Sem- in Spirit's condition?”

 

Marie hesitated, then shook her head. “. . . no.” The man slouched against the wall, picking open a square of chocolate with ragged fingernails. “Kami arrived this morning. She's going to be staying with Maka until Spirit recovers.”

 

“I take it by the lack of screaming outside that no one's informed her of what transpired between Spirit and myself,” he said, his voice wooden.

 

“No,” she repeated. “No one knows. I – Sid wants to talk to you sometime.”

 

“You mean interrogate.”

 

“He wants to _talk to you_ about what happened.” She draped her arms over her knees. “Shinigami wants to formally arrest you now, but Sid says there's an issue because Spirit never actually made a report to law enforcement about – you know.”

 

The bar of chocolate dropped to the ground. “He never told anyone . . . ?”

 

She shook her head. “He's never actually said anything to _anyone_ about it, except maybe Shinigami-sama.”

 

“I shouldn't be surprised,” he said softly when no other answer came forth from her. “But for some reason I _am_. It doesn't make sense.”

 

A heavy hand rapped at the door. “- guess my time's up,” she said. Stein looked at her, his gaze distant, and nodded as he shifted the restraints back around himself to look as though he were still bound up. “Just hang in there, OK? All you have to do is tell everyone the truth. Nothing to worry about, I promise. I'll see you first thing in the morning.” She fondly kissed the top of his head, smiling as his stubbled chin grazed against her cheek. “Maybe in the meantime I can convince them to get you a bath. You stink.”

 

Teasing, of course. With Marie, it was easy to tell – she wore her emotions openly. Giving her the barest hint of a smile, Stein settled back against the wall and narrowed his eyes against the flash of light as she exited. He slipped loose of the restraints again and felt around for the sweet he had dropped, popping it into his mouth and biting down on it, grit and all.

 

“Tell the truth.” Stein cranked the screw in his head until the metal screeched against bone, the sound reverberating in the tiny cell, and barked a short laugh. “You don't know what you're asking of me, Marie.”

 

*~*

 

_Consciousness is a tiny light, elusive and fleeting, always dancing through the shadows just beyond the reach of his fingertips._

 

“Geez, Maka, you're going to go cross-eyed if you stare at that book like that any longer.”

 

“Already told her that. I think she's gone deaf in one ear or something.”

 

“Ha, ha, _ha_. Real funny, you two. Now move, you're blocking my light.”

 

_At times voices filter through, the whispers of reality carried in on the winds of a dream, forgotten as soon as they pass._

 

“Did they say anything, Mama? How's Papa doing?”

 

“. . . the same as he was yesterday. I'm sorry, dear.”

 

_A snippet of conversation, a few words, and the light fades again._

 

“Father, you should be resting! You're barely able to move, much less-”

 

“I can rest here, Kid.”

 

“But-”

 

“No buts. You didn't leave your friends' sides until they were safe. I'm _not_ leaving his.”

 

_He throbs in time with the light, rising and falling, until-_

 

*~*

 

_A viper's grin above him. Cigarette ashes, the glow of hot embers. Fire pulses, flickers. Moves lower._

 

_The scent of flesh burning._

 

_A hand reaches down-_

 

“ _STOP!_ ”

 

Immediately a gentle hand touched his wrist, guiding his arm back down. “Spirit,” a familiar voice soothed. “Spirit, calm down. You were having a bad dream.”

 

Hazy blue eyes blinked slowly before he tilted his head back, letting out a shaky breath. The night terror had sunk back to the dark recesses of his mind. The only image it had left behind was an ashy red light dancing above him, but there was nothing there now except a heart monitor pulsing steadily, a pair of IV bags hanging above it. Cracked ceiling tiles, a curtain around the bed he lay in, rain pounding against the window . . . “Dispens'ry?” he croaked, his speech slurred.

 

“You always were the observant one,” the voice said again, amused, and recognition flashed through him like a thunderbolt. He turned his head to the right and there she was – long blonde hair and dark, narrowed eyes that tilted up at the corners, a worried smile touching her lips, lovely as ever, unfairly perfect - “Kami,” he whispered, holding his fingers out towards her.

 

“Hey.” She peeked around the curtain and said something unintelligible to someone behind it before leaning forward, taking his calloused hand in her small one and squeezing it once. “Don't try to talk too much. You've got an NG tube in – if your throat hurts, that's why – and-”

 

“How'd y' . . . get here s' fast?”

 

His ex-wife stared down at their hands and briefly chewed on her lower lip. “Spirit,” she began, “I've – Shinigami-sama can explain this better than I can. I bet you're thirsty – do you want some water?”

 

A nod, and she held a glass of ice water up to his dry, cracked lips, propping his head up with her other hand. “No straws, sorry,” she murmured as he took a few awkward sips. Water droplets spilled from the corners of his mouth as he tried to drink too fast, dripping down through the sparse red stubble on his chin to spatter on his bandaged chest. He choked; she pulled the glass away with a frown. “Slow down, Spirit! It's not going to run away from you!”

 

“Sorry,” he managed through the spasming coughs, every movement making him wince in pain.

 

Kami rubbed his neck as he hacked up the fluid, his face turning pale and lips turning slightly blue from the effort. “Do you need oxygen? Are you all right?”

 

Spirit shook his head and waved her away as the spasm abated. “'m fine.” He reached a weak hand up to wipe the water away. The back of his hand was bruised, the bones prominent even through the tape that held the IV secure. After a moment of panting he turned back to her, his eyes disturbingly aware. “How long've you been here?”

 

She heaved a sigh; the woman reluctantly withdrew her touch, letting him lay his head back on the nest of pillows. “ . . . I got here two days after the Kishin was defeated. You were already in a coma when I got here.” Kami looked down at her hands where she'd bitten the nails down to the quick. “That was over two weeks ago.”

 

A sharp inhale of breath. “ . . . _two weeks?_ ” he managed.

 

“Closer to three, actually.” An elegantly gloved hand reached around the curtain and pulled it back, admitting a pale, thin figure in a suit; striped black-and-white hair hung limply around his face, and his golden eyes had lost much of their shine. “You were far more injured than you let on, Spirit,” Shinigami said, his voice weary.

 

“I haven't told him yet,” she said, looking up at the Reaper. Spirit's eyes narrowed in confusion.

 

“Nothing?”

 

She shook her head; he sighed and waved a hand back towards the door. “I'll take care of it. You'd better go tell Maka he's awake, yes? She may be in the cafeteria with her friends.”

 

Spirit's voice stopped her halfway. “Will y' come back? Kami?”

 

The look she gave him was almost pitying. “Don't worry,” she said, slipping past the curtain. “Maka and I will be back soon.”

 

As soon as the door had clicked shut, the deathscythe turned his tired gaze towards his Meister. “. . . she doesn' know, does she.”

 

“No.” Shinigami nudged Spirit aside and sat down on the edge of the hospital bed. His eyes were clouded over, almost wet; the scowl he wore wavered. One gloved hand reached out and gently laid fingertips against the younger man's jaw. “I swear, if you _ever_ do _anything_ that stupid again, Spirit Albarn, I will _kill_ you, drag your soul _back_ from hell, and _kill you again_.”

 

Spirit huffed a laugh – only briefly, as the movement sent shooting pains through his chest. “'s a helluva thank-you,” he croaked.

 

“I'm not going to thank you for trying to get yourself killed.” His deep voice was deathly serious. “Your heart stopped _three times_! I thought I was going to _lose_ you!”

 

“'s my job t' protect you,” DeathScythe said slowly, shaking his head. “Not lettin' m' best friend get himself killed.”

 

The Reaper made a soft choking sound at that, lowering his hand to cover his Weapon's. “. . . I probably would have died if you hadn't stepped in,” he admitted. “But . . . the damage to you . . . .” His misty golden eyes strayed up over the younger man's heavily bandaged chest to his left shoulder – to the smooth, bandaged stump where his arm prematurely terminated just below the shoulder joint.

 

Spirit's gaze followed his Meister's; faded eyes grew wide in shock and he jerked away, reaching up with a now-trembling hand to feel the area where his left arm had been amputated. “H- _how?_ ” he choked out.

 

“Ashura's last attack. There was too much damage – they couldn't reattach it.” Shinigami lowered his head, a hitch in his voice. “I'm so sorry.”

 

There was silence for several long minutes, anxious breathing and little hisses of pain, before his good hand fell back at his side. “Still feel it,” Spirit said. His voice was distant, the shock settling in. “I can feel m' fingers movin'. Just feels like . . . m' arm shrank a few inches. S'weird.” He winced as the muscles in his shoulder spasmed. “ _Burns._ ”

 

“Phantom limb. It's not uncommon – I'll make sure they give you something for the pain.” Golden irises dulled to a sickly yellow-grey as they stared into that guileless face. “I-”

 

Those faded blue eyes, already pained and haunted, fixed the Reaper in a flat gaze. “Will I still be able t' . . . be your deathscythe?”

 

“Who else am I going to get to dance with all those emissaries for me?”

 

The corners of Spirit's parched lips turned up slightly; he rolled his eyes. “Y' know what I mean.”

 

The Reaper swallowed hard, gloved hands wringing together nervously. “It's – it's too soon to say, Spirit. Your – injury – may not have an effect on your Weapon form, but we won't know for sure until you've healed. The fact that you _are_ a deathscythe will most likely work in your favor, though.” He gave his friend a tight smile, unwilling to let show how much that question worried him. “You've always excelled at form manipulation. If it does have an effect, then we'll find a way to work with it.”

 

Spirit glanced away uncertainly; his fingers picked at a loose thread on the edge of his thin hospital blanket. “You're my _partner_ , Spirit. I'm not going to toss you out because of a little setback like this,” Shinigami said.

 

DeathScythe didn't even look up. “Wouldn' blame y' if y' did,” he murmured quietly, and the sincerity in his voice was heartwrenching to hear.

 

Sighing, Shinigami pretended to ignore the words. “Do you need anything? Water? They'll take the NG tube out later; I'm not sure when-”

 

“'m fine.” He turned back to his Meister. “What else'd y' wanna tell me? Can't be any worse'n this, right?”And damn him, but there was still the faintest thread of hope in his voice, even after everything he had been through – the desperate hope of someone clinging to the edge.

 

For a moment he paused. Spirit watched him, thin and fragile under the bandages, cheeks gaunt, eyes sunken in, looking for all the world so delicate that he would shatter at a touch. Just a month ago he had been strong, his effervescent personality a relief from the burdens that weighed him down. Now . . . .

 

Shinigami slipped long gloved fingers through his Weapon partner's hair, tucking it back behind his ear. It was wrong to hold the information back. Stein was there and it was only a matter of time before the younger man sensed his soul wavelength. He couldn't keep that fact hidden forever. Spirit would never forgive him for hiding it; the reasons screamed through his mind and yet – “It can wait,” he finally said, his voice low and gentle. “Rest for now, Spirit. I'll keep you safe.”

 

*~*

 

“You have activated the Lines of Sanzu, young master. A rather impressive feat, if I may say so.”

 

Kid's head snapped up; he jerked away guiltily from the controls to the Death City robot, narrowing his eyes at the silent intruder. “You – you're Eibon, aren't you? One of Father's old associates?”

 

The elder being inclined his head slightly. Eibon loomed over Kid, still as a statue; how the enormous being had managed to move in complete silence with the layers of heavy clothing he encased himself the young shinigami could not figure out. “And you are Death's youngest child. We are well-met. May I be of assistance?”

 

“I did have some – wait, _what?_ ” The empty room echoed with his surprised yelp. “What do you mean, I'm his youngest child? I'm his _only_ child!”

 

Eibon was silent for several moments behind his helmet before he inclined his head again. “My statement does not logically negate yours. Being an only child would automatically make one the youngest.” He paused. “And the oldest.” Another pause; the Great Old One shifted himself as if sitting down, although even then he was still taller than the boy. “I regret if my phrasing caused any distress.”

 

The young shinigami eyed him dubiously before sitting down in the pilot's chair to face the other. “. . . never mind that for now,” he said, his eyes troubled. “What do you know of the Lines of Sanzu?”

 

“The Lines of Sanzu are the mark of a true shinigami,” Eibon recited. “Before activation the nascent shinigami is in a state of Kun, of the Earth. Activation marks the Transition from one shinigami to another. Assuming the adolescent shinigami does not fall into the ninth state of the eight trigrams, both heir and sire will wax and wane in the natural time. Full activation marks a state of Qian, of Heaven, and the completion of the cycle.”

 

“Transition? Cycle?”

 

“. . . Milord Death has not spoken of this to you?”

 

Impeccably manicured fingers dug into the faux leather of the seat. “No. He hasn't. I thought he was done keeping secrets from me.” Kid flashed angry eyes up at the former Meister. “What do you mean by transition?”

 

With a sigh, Eibon shook his ponderous head. “If he has not seen fit to enlighten you, then it is not my place to do so either. Forgive me.”

 

Kid grunted and scuffed his shoes against the cold stone floor. “Perhaps there is something else I can assist you with?” the ancient being offered.

 

“Well, there is one thing I was curious about.” The young man rubbed the back of his head. “When Father used BREW . . . why did he not just use it to free his soul from this place? The only reason he locked his soul here in the first place was to keep Ashura in check!” His shoulders slumped against the chair; one hand flicked idly at a joystick, causing the room to shudder slightly. “It's not right that the only way he can get out is through _this_ thing.”

 

“That was his initial wish.” Eibon waved a hand over the console, steadying it. “Regretfully, BREW was not strong enough at the time to overcome the bond his soul had made. This earth has been incorporated into his soul for so long . . . . Time was of the essence. BREW responded as best it could to his heart's true desire.”

 

Golden eyes regarded the being for a moment, the frown creasing his brow just like his father's world-wearied one. “'Was'? Could it break that bond now?”

 

The Great Old One paused to stare down at him. No eyes were visible, and yet the intensity of the stare was palpable in the darkness, the chill as his soul was examined with a clinical coldness. “Why do you wish for Milord Death's freedom, young master?” he asked.

 

“Because he's my father!” Kid drew himself up, sullen and distant, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them. “Because he deserves to be happy. He gives and he gives and I always demand he give more.”

 

“You feel guilt for doubting his motives over collecting the Magic Tools.” A shadow fell over the boy. “BREW is not a gift you can use to assuage your guilt, Death the Kid. Use comes only from truly selfless desire, and yours is not.” The voice grew warmer. “Though it is admirable that you wish for the sake of another.”

 

Kid sighed. “Not admirable enough, apparently.”

 

“. . . it may be possible to dissolve Death's link to this soil.” One huge armored hand rested atop the young shinigami's head for a brief moment. “As you wax in your Transition, so too does your father wane. His bond loosens even as we speak. BREW may be able to disconnect him from these chains, if not permanently, then for periods of time. There are many who would be served well by his freedom; if I am to be in his thrall, then it behooves me to at least try. And his wish is still in place.” Eibon drew in a deep breath. “There is but one thing I ask in return, if I may be so bold, young master.”

 

“Of course. If I can, I'll try.”

 

“Your father is not the only one who desires freedom.” Kid's eyes widened as the elder being turned to fade back into the shadows. “I bound myself to BREW as punishment for my mistakes. But this world does not need BREW, and I long to reunite with my beloved at the end of all things. So I ask you, child of Death – find a way to destroy it. Find a way to set me free.”

 

*~*

 

“Well? What do you think?”

 

Sid stood at the cell door with his arms crossed over his chest, Marie next to him. “It's a good opportunity, Stein,” she said.

 

Shinigami had announced that he would be moving the DWMA back to its rightful place that evening – rumor had it, correctly, that he had been waiting for Spirit's condition to stabilize – and the last of the NATO troops were pulling out before the move began. NATO's medical teams had been a tremendous help during the aftermath of the battle, but their supplies were nearly gone, and Brazil was giving off some not-so-subtle hints about moving the giant city out of their territory. The problem that left was a shortage of qualified medical staff to tend to those still held in the Dispensary.

 

A shortage that could be eased quite a bit by one man – one who was still being held in a cell on unspecified charges.

 

Stein looked back up at them, nicotine-stained fingers twitching to hold a cigarette. “And Shinigami really wants me to help the medical staff?”

 

“. . . you won't be allowed to attend to DeathScythe,” Sid amended. “And you'll have to have one of us accompanying you at all times. Otherwise, you'll be given relatively free reign.”

 

“In other words, they're desperate for help.”

 

“ _Stein._ ” Marie shot him a dirty look, eyebrows furrowed. She sighed and spread her hands. “Yes, we need all the help we can get. So do _you_ , in case you haven't noticed. Helping us might show Shinigami-sama you're not under Medusa's influence anymore. You lost a lot of trust from the staff – we need to rebuild that.”

 

The scientist looked down at the dusty stone floor; his left hand came up and cranked the screw on his head back a few more notches. “You're right. I'm sorry, Marie.” His rueful smile split his lips in an almost ghastly way. “Think they'll let me have a pack of cigarettes if I behave myself?”

 

The deathscythe smiled. Sid shook his head, trying not to look amused. His faux reluctance had disarmed them; while the zombie kept his eyes on him as he unfolded himself and got to his feet, it was observation based more out of duty than suspicion.

 

On the outside, he was calm and studied; inside, Stein's nerves were on edge, guts twisting into knots.

 

_Sempai,_ he thought as the doors closed behind him. _I'm coming, Sempai._

 

_I have to see what I've done to you._

 

*~*

 

Spirit was asleep again (after a rather tearful reunion with his daughter – Shinigami hadn't stayed around for that once Kami had joined in, feeling rather like an intruder in their odd little family moment), and having reassurance that all preparations were made and everything was in order, he was now back in the vault in the depths of the city, sitting before the controls of his Death City robot, preparing to take them all home.

 

“. . . well, it was nice while it lasted,” he said wistfully, cracking his huge hands before placing them on the shift stick. “I'm going to miss the rain, though.”

 

“I take it that means you enjoyed your trip, milord?” Eibon stepped out of the shadows behind him, hands clasped respectfully behind his back.

 

The Reaper chuckled. “I was wondering when you were going to pop out. Just because you're linked to BREW don't have to stay inside that old thing all the time, you know.”

 

“It is . . . an old habit, I suppose. And those are notoriously hard to break.”

 

“True.” Leaning back in his chair, the elder being regarded his old companion for a moment, before releasing a long breath. “I owe you an apology, you know. One that's been long overdue.”

 

If Eibon could have blinked, he would have. “Milord?”

 

“When your wife passed away. I was . . . less than understanding.” Shinigami paused, then shook his head. “I didn't understand why a mortal would hold such a place in your heart, or why you would try to break your vows as one of my compatriots for a single life. I should have at least made an effort to see things from your perspective instead of dismissing it as folly.” He shifted the controls forward; the city rocked once, then settled as it began to move forward, taking them out of the area.

 

For a moment Eibon was silent. “So you're saying you understand it now?”

 

“Far better than I ever thought I would.”

 

Again the younger of the two was silent. When he did speak, humor tinted his voice. “I never thought I'd see the day when Death fell in love with a human. You used to think so little of them.”

 

“A lot has changed since the old days, Eibon. It took humans to teach me what it was I lacked. Even with Kid.” The wistfulness in his voice was palpable. “I made so many mistakes with Ashura, so I created Kid right. Started him as an infant instead of in a fully mature body. And then I realized I had no idea what to do with a baby.” He laughed. “My Weapon – Spirit – I don't know that Kid would have _survived_ if he hadn't been around to help me out, much less turned out as well as he had. It took Ashura over a hundred years to begin to Transition. Kid's only fifteen, and look at him.”

 

Eibon's enormous head tilted back, studying the ceiling – searching through the hundreds of soul wavelengths in the city above them. “Does your Spirit know of your feelings?”

 

“. . . he doesn't know. He can't.” Shinigami let his proud stance slump, resting his head in his hands. “Not after what Stein did to him. Not that I ever even expected for him to know, but – you can feel it in his soul wavelength. I can move mountains, direct souls to the afterlife; I have control over the lives of every being on this planet; and I can't do something as simple as heal _one broken soul_.”

 

A metal-encased hand rested on his shoulder briefly. “That's the magic behind love, milord Death. It is stronger than any of us. And it can heal where no other power can.” His echoed voice was gentle. “It just takes a lot of patience. Don't give up on happiness yet, not for him or for you. It may take time, but I think you'll find that even the most broken of souls can heal.”

 

*~*

 

The convalescence room was dark, illuminated only by the LCD display of the heart monitor as its green light steadily monitored Spirit's heartbeat. The city's movement had set off alarms everywhere, and unsecured medical supplies had gone flying off their shelves; Marie was collecting them and Sid was off securing the alarms and reassuring the students. Sid trusted Marie to look after Stein . . . and Marie trusted Stein to behave.

 

He almost felt bad about breaking her trust like this. Almost.

 

His footsteps silent, Stein slunk around the edge of the bed to stand next to his former partner. Spirit was fast asleep, a pillow braced under the stump of his left shoulder to keep him from rolling over onto it. His face was drawn, cheeks hollow and eyes sunken in; the scientist lifted up his chart and held it under the glow of the monitor to read it. A total of seven broken ribs, five of which had needed metal plates to stabilize. Broken left collarbone and scapula. Traumatic amputation of the left arm at the shoulder. Concussion, minor subdural hemorrhage, resolved on its own. Punctured lung. Bruised liver. Below that, an annotation of injuries – the injuries Stein himself had given the man. The cuts and bite wounds, burns and-

 

Stein let the clipboard slip from his fingers to the floor; it hit with a loud clatter.

 

“. . . who's there . . . ?”

 

Sleepy blue eyes fluttered open. Frozen in place, Stein turned his startled gaze down at the man lying in bed. “Shinigami? 'zat you?” Spirit murmured, raising his remaining hand to rub at his eyes. “I was-”

 

Grey-gold eyes met faded blue. What little color was in Spirit's face faded away; his jaw worked, terrified little gasps escaping, but no real sound coming out. “N- _n-_ ”

 

“Sempai.”

 

“No. _N-n-no,_ _ **no**_ _-_ ” Spirit curled inward on himself protectively, hand clawing at his hair, drawing in breath to scream.

 

Before he could make more than a few whimpers, Stein leaned forward and pressed a finger against the older man's lips. Spirit immediately went quiet, his body trembling uncontrollably at the touch. “Don't say a word, Sempai,” he whispered. “I wasn't here. Do you understand?”

 

Spirit held his breath and nodded, once, tears beginning to spill from wide, terrified eyes down his gaunt cheeks. “Good,” Stein managed. He took his hand away. The other man flinched, drawing himself in tighter despite the pain the movement caused; he stepped backwards from the bed and didn't turn away until he had reached the door frame.

 

The door closed on the sound of quiet, terrified sobbing.

 

Stein grasped hold of the screw in his head and cranked it until it burned, trying to shut out the scene he had just been privy to. The power, the sheer control, the fear . . . before, when he had let the Madness take control, it would have been a triumph.

 

Now it only made him want to scream.

 

 

 


	13. Where Darkness Dares to Tread

Chapter 13: Where Darkness Dares to Tread

 

*~*

 

_Flying business class to Florence, Italy. They recline in luxury seating, propped up by down pillows, as soothing jazz music plays through the small cabin. A small glass sits by his hand – scotch on the rocks, beads of condensation rolling down the outside to puddle atop the foldout tabletop. A news feed flickers across the muted television. Beside him, Spirit stirs and lifts a finger; a primly dressed stewardess is immediately at their side to refill his snifter of brandy._

 

“ _Don't you think you should slow down on the drinking, Sempai?” Stein asks._

 

_His companion rolls his eyes. “We still have six hours to go before we land, Stein, lighten up a little.” He swirls the amber liquid in the glass thoughtfully. “Besides, it'd take more than three glasses of brandy to get me drunk.”_

 

“ _That's your last one.” Stein draws a finger through the puddle of condensation on the table before him and begins tracing out numbers, mathematical formulae. “As long as I'm your Meister, I'd like to keep you sober.”_

 

“ _. . . you're_ not _my Meister, Stein.” The vehemence in Spirit's voice draws the younger man's gaze upward. He stares at his former partner, lips pursed in a scowl; he tilts his head back and under the long cherry-red hair there is a thin white scar, so thin that it's nearly invisible against his pale skin, running the length of his throat. Stein knows without having to see that there are dozens more just like it etched into the other's skin. “You broke our partnership when you gave me these.”_

 

_Stein lifts an unsteady hand to crank the screw in his head._

 

“ _You know what really gets me?” A glass of brandy might not make him drunk, but it has loosened his tongue. Spirit sits up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, an earnestness in his voice rarely ever heard. “You never even_ apologized _, Stein. All those times you used me as your personal lab rat –_ without my consent _, I might add – and you've never had the decency to even say you were sorry for it! What the hell, man? I trusted you!”_

 

“ _You would prefer I lied to you?”_

 

_Shifting up straighter, Spirit tilts his head curiously. Stein begins spinning a little silver-plated lighter in his fingers in lieu of the cigarette he so obviously wants to light up. His gaze fixates on the scrolling news feed, the window, anywhere but his ex-partner's face. “I don't expect you to understand, sempai,” he begins. “I can't apologize for what I'm not sorry for. I don't regret the experiments themselves. The knowledge I gained from them has served me well, made me more efficient at fighting, even more skilled at healing.” When he finally does meet his companion's eyes, there's a hint of alien emotion there, of something the younger man is not accustomed to feeling. “I – am sorry that my actions broke up our partnership.”_

 

_Long fingers tap against the brandy snifter. “. . . would you do it again now? The truth, Stein.”_

 

“ _No.” No hesitation in his voice. “You asked once if I really wanted to live in a world without gods. I tried living that way once. I learned, but I lost the only friend I ever had.” He grasps his watered-down scotch and downs it in one go. Behind Spirit, outside the airplane window, a little prismatic insect dances in mid-air, skittering on stick-figure legs as its three eyes stare through him. “The knowledge was worth it then. I know better now.”_

 

_Spirit stares at him thoughtfully for several long seconds before setting his drink aside. “Okay.”_

 

“ _Sempai?”_

 

“ _No more drinking for me. You said you wanted me sober, right? I should probably do as my Meister says.” He waves the stewardess over, regretfully exchanging his fine brandy for a can of ginger ale. Stein blinks in surprise, his eyes widening behind his glasses. “You've been honest with me, so . . . I'm going to trust you. My ma taught me that everyone deserves a second chance. This is yours. Don't make me regret this.”_

 

_A soft smile spreads across his face; Stein's lips curl up at the edges, canines bared._

 

“ _Oh, but sempai.”_

 

_The television begins to scream static._

 

“ _You **will.** ”_

 

Stein's eyes snapped open.

 

His new cell was dark save for what little moonlight came in through the tiny window high up on the wall; he lay flat on his back in the cramped bed and stared up at the ceiling, expecting to see the signs of Ashura's Madness wavelength dancing across his vision and strangely disappointed when they never came.

 

“ _Everyone deserves a second chance.”_

 

He lifted a trembling hand to the screw in his head.

 

“ _Don't make me regret this.”_

 

How long ago that seemed now, that flight to Italy, the two of them sent after the Demon Sword. Spirit's face, so open and honest and disappointed. The strange, somehow soothing elation he had felt at his sempai's willingness to accept him again, to rekindle their broken friendship. And they had done it, picked up where they had left off all those years before as if nothing had ever happened, until –

 

“ _I want you to **fear** me.”_

 

The screech of metal on bone reverberated in the room as he viciously cranked the screw back. Pain lanced through his skull – he _welcomed_ it, welcomed the pain and the endorphin rush, anything to block out the reminder of

 

_(of a face soiled by blood and cum, tears washing clean streaks down the sides of his cheeks; of the scent of clove cigarettes masked by that of burning flesh; of hoarse cries of pain, so sweet to his ears, ohgod the **pleasure** as he thrust again into the thin body below him, tight and hot)_

 

_(of empty blue eyes staring past him, seeing everything and nothing; of a body that no longer fought even as he forced those bloodied lips to part a third time for him; of tears and red and salty white and the sight of his sempai slumped on the floor, the final brittle_ snap _of a soul shattering and **he was the one to break it-** )_

 

A click, and blood began to trickle from where screw met scalp. Hollow laughter echoed throughout the room – Stein stuffed the blade of his hand in his mouth and bit down to muffle his laughter before it could turn to screams. The corners of his lips were wet and salty, wetness on his cheeks turning cold. It was what he had wanted, wasn't it? An experiment. The reaction of the human mind to torture, to stress. Spirit's reaction to the pain he had inflicted on Stein all those years ago, when he had _deserted_ him, left him burdened with _feelings_ and _thoughts_ and _emotions_ he didn't understand and couldn't handle, all because of a few harmless little _experiments_ , and why couldn't he _understand how important those had been to him?_

 

How important his trust had been, how much Stein had relied on him to understand and comply, to accept his quirks and keep him restrained – did Spirit even understand how _hard_ it had been to learn to hold himself back, to adjust to the social mores of a world he didn't always understand? Didn't he _understand_ just how much he meant to his Meister?

 

He rolled over onto his stomach, arms dangling off the edge of the bed and huffing hot breaths through the thin pillow. No. No, he probably hadn't. God knew Stein had never told him.

 

And why couldn't Stein accept how sacred the concept of privacy was, of personal space, of the body as a temple – that Spirit wasn't his pet but his _equal_ , his partner?

 

( _On his knees before him. Trembling, lips forced apart. Teeth and tongue and tears and the_ _ **power**_ _, if he couldn't control the Madness couldn't control himself couldn't control his MIND his SOUL he could control THIS, his experiment, his to CONTROL, his creature to_ _ **suffer**_ _at his whim, and a voice had hissed in his ear to_ _ **keep going**_ _, to_ _ **break him down**_ _, to_ _ **take CONTROL**_ _, to take and take and_ _ **TAKE**_ _-_ )

 

With a low grunt of frustration, Stein grit his teeth and shifted on the bunk. In his desperation, his fear of being powerless over his Medness, he had slipped and let the Madness take control. He had taken – and taken, and _taken –_ exulting in the other's agony, in the illusion of power, until there was nothing left but fear and ruins, a friendship shattered beyond all repair. Those terrified blue eyes – even now, over a month later, it was obvious. Spirit was utterly terrified of him. And with good reason.

 

“ _I'm going to trust you.”_

 

Part of Stein wished Spirit had never trusted him at all.

 

*~*

 

“This brings back a lot of memories.”

 

The fresh, raw pink surgical scars stood out bright against Spirit's pale chest, vivid amidst the nearly invisible white of older, random scarred cuts and gouges. The deathscythe sat in the center of the hospital bed, unnaturally shy as Kami cut off bandages and peeled away gauze. He was normally a hound for attention, and while his ex-wife harbored suspicion that he secretly had a fetish for ladies in nurse uniforms, he seemed completely uninterested in the idea of her tending to him. Quite the opposite, in fact – every unexpected touch made him flinch, and it was difficult to make him sit still. He was acting almost paranoid, frightened in a way his ex-wife hadn't seen since-

 

Her delicate nails traced over the thick scarring across his broad shoulders, the word carved into his flesh. Not since they had been students.

 

Not since _Stein_.

 

“. . . Kami?”

 

Spirit stared down at her, blue eyes distant and anxious; she shook her head and took up a roll of sterile bandages, soaking them down with antiseptic. “I- I mean . . . do you remember when Maka was in preschool – she had the flu? You decided to stay home and take care of her so I could teach. And she was _so_ miserable, and you couldn't think of any other way to distract her-”

 

For a moment a spark of life lit up his faded blue eyes. “I remember that.” He winced as she dabbed at his still-tender ribs. “I looked everywhere but I couldn't find the crayons or the coloring books, so I got out the markers and . . .”

 

“. . . let her play connect-the-dots with your scars. You two were _covered_ in permanent marker when I got home!” Kami smiled back at him, washing over the ragged network of healing scars that marked where his left arm had been torn off. “Maka and her Patchwork Papa. I could have strangled you for letting her make such a mess, you know. But . . . you two were enjoying yourselves so much. I didn't have the heart to be mad.”

 

He huffed a sigh, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a crooked sort of half-smile. “We had some good times, didn't we, Kami?”

 

“Yeah.” She glanced up through pale blonde bangs, her dark eyes unreadable. “We did.”

 

“Why are you here helping with all this?” Spirit asked. “I mean, I'm glad you're here, Maka needs her mother now more than ever. It's just . . . .” He looked down at his hand, the fingernails someone had neatly trimmed for him while he had been comatose. “I thought you hated me.”

 

“. . . it would be easier if I did.” Kami sighed, tossing the soiled bandages aside and reaching for clean ones. “I don't hate you, Spirit. Disappointed in you, yes. Angry, yes. But I don't hate you.”

 

Long calloused fingers raked his hair back from his face. “Wish you could convince Maka to feel the same way.”

 

“Maka still loves you. She's just . . . really confused right now.” Kami bit her lower lip. “She's not entirely happy with me right now either.”

 

“With you?” Spirit's brow furrowed. “What happened?”

 

“I-” She sat down beside him, folding her hands in her lap. “I've been seeing somebody. As in – dating.”

 

Any sense of good humor left from their previous conversation seemed to instantly dissipate. He turned his head away. “You knew we were never getting back together, Spirit,” she said. “And I – it was time for me to move on. We were too young; it was doomed from the start. Now that I'm older and I know what I want-”

 

“It's OK.”

 

She stopped, lips parted in shock. “I knew it would happen eventually,” he said. “And I don't blame you. You deserve better than what I can offer. Part of me will always love you, Kami, but . . . .” He shook his head, his voice trembling. “I just want you to be happy. And I know that's something I can't give you.” Letting out a long, slow breath, Spirit rolled his shoulders back, wincing as his joints popped and cracked. “Whoever the lucky guy is – make sure he treats you right, OK?”

 

Kami laid a hand on his good shoulder, squeezing it gently. This wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go – he was supposed to be panicking, begging her to come back to him, proclaiming his undying love, anything but this terrible, defeated surrender. Spirit wasn't supposed to _be_ the calm one. Not over something like this. “You're taking this awfully well. Are you sure you're not sick?” she teased, placing a hand on his thigh as she leaned forward to look in his face. “Maybe I should take your temperature.”

 

Tension thrummed, the muscles in his thin body taut; it was impossible to miss how he flinched at her touch. “I've just had a lot to think about,” he said, his voice distant.

 

“. . . what happened between you and Stein, Spirit?” She touched his face, trying to tilt his head up and make him look her in the eyes. “I know it's more than just a fight. Shinigami-sama might be able to fool the rest of them with that story, but I know you too well to believe that.”

 

The deathscythe inhaled sharply. “N-nothing.”

 

Her hand dropped from his face. “Nygus won't let me look at your medical charts. Shinigami-sama's orders. What are you hiding?”

 

Faded blue eyes flashed a fathomless hurt, betrayal, beads of moisture forming at the corners. “. . . Kami, _please,_ ” he breathed. “Don't.”

 

“Spirit, why are you protecting him? Maka keeps asking what happened to you and I don't know what to tell her!” She threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. “I can't believe you even let him that close to you in the _first_ place! Remember what happened _last_ time you trusted Stein?”

 

“Do you think I could _forget?_ ” He rounded on her, suddenly furious. “Shinigami-sama ordered me to partner with him, to watch out for him – I didn't have a choice! _Someone_ had to-”

 

“And of course it had to be you!” Their voices rose, the familiar angry tones that had marked their last few years of marriage – it was so easy to slip back into the old roles, even without the bands of gold bonding them together. “You always have to be Shinigami's _pet_ , don't you, Spirit? I couldn't get you to do anything for me, but all he has to do is snap his fingers and there you were, wagging your tail! You could have said no!”

 

He rolled his eyes, fist clutching at the blankets. “I'm a _deathscythe_ , Kami. What part of that do you not understand?”

 

“You _knew_ better than to let him near you, especially when he wasn't in control of himself! And what about Maka? Did you stop to think about her? Why did you let her get so attached to that crazy bastard? She shouldn't be near him!” Kami leaned forward, poking him in the chest with one slim finger. “You – you _knew_ better, you _had it coming_ for being _stupid_ enough to-”

 

A hand lashed out; the hard crack of flesh striking flesh echoed through the room. Kami fell back hard on the cold tile floor, her cheek scarlet and beginning to swell. Spirit sat above her in the hospital bed, trembling, his arm outstretched. He stared down at her with eyes wide and wet and terrified before looking at his balled-up fist.

 

He'd struck her.

 

Spirit, who had never once raised a hand against his wife, had hit her.

 

She flinched as he lowered his hand; he drew in a pained breath when she moved away, as if her reaction was a physical blow. “Spirit?” she began, her voice tiny and hurt. “How could you?”

 

The deathscythe mumbled something, too low for her to hear; as she watched, he gripped the side table next to him and exhaled a shaking breath. Drops of water began to trickle down his newly-shaven chin. “Spirit, what-”

 

“ _I know it's my fault!_ ”

 

The scream tore itself from his lips; his shoulders shook once, a heaving breath. “I already _know_ it's my fault, Kami, why do you have to keep _reminding_ me?! _I didn't want this to happen!_ ”

 

“I – I didn't-”

 

A glass of water went sailing, shattering against the wall just feet from her head. “ _Get out_ ,” he snarled, and when Spirit lifted his head to look at her his face was contorted with self-loathing, eyes red-rimmed and spilling tears. Ignoring the strain the movement put on his injuries, he reached out with a hand that was no longer there to snatch up a water pitcher to throw and fell forward on his stomach in the bed, throwing himself off-balance. “ _Fuck-_ ”

 

Kami hesitantly reached out towards him and was shaken off, the stump of his left arm jerking away. “ _ **Don't touch me!**_ ” he screamed. “ _Just_ _ **go!**_ ”

 

Choking back a cry, she turned and fled the room; the click of her shoes against the tile wasn't loud enough to mask the sound of her crying.

 

Spirit cursed under his breath, his fist pounding uselessly against the mattress. Rage boiled within him, the hungry howl of a Wolf echoing in his ears; screaming, he lashed out and swept everything off the side table. Pitcher, lamp, books – everything crashed to the floor, glass shattering over the floor, water spilling, papers flying, soaked and ruined. Another strike and the table cracked in two, split apart by a chipped and rusted scythe blade. Breaking, breaking _everything_ , because it was all coming apart, he was _shattering_ inside and he couldn't make it _stop-_

 

Dark eyes observed him as he collapsed against the bed, shoulders heaving as he raged against his own bitter tears.

 

*~*

 

“Dead?”

 

“Thirteen civilians. Two Weapons, one Meister. The other Meister is in critical condition.” Sid folded muscular arms over his chest. “The kishin have moved since then – the Palestinian territories and Israel have both reported attacks. A new witch's coven has branched out in Thailand. Austria reported-”

 

Shinigami held a huge hand up to silence him. The Reaper leaned up against his huge ornamental mirror, his mask blank and his shoulders drooping. Beside him, Kid stood with hands perched on his hips, looking between the two in concern. Ever since his father had managed to settle Death City back in its proper home, the reports of pre-kishin and witches had been flooding in, all amidst their own troubles; reconstructing the city after it had torn itself from the ground was proving to be a challenge in and of itself. Help was pouring in, but their resources were already strained. And to make things worse, international news agencies were lined up outside the city walls; journalists with less than stellar ethics kept trying to sneak into the city or the Academy itself to get the scoop on what was proving to be the biggest news story of the year. Kid did not envy his father the difficulty of managing so much unbridled chaos.

 

Not to mention other unresolved issues . . . .

 

“Send Justin to Israel. Tezca and Djinn can scout out the Thailand issue – I'll have Pushka assist them once they get a fix on where they're convening, if he can be spared.” Shinigami's voice was weary. “Go through the roster of our former students and see what three-star Meisters and Weapons are still active. We may have to call them back to the Academy to assist for a while.”

 

“Why can't the current EAT students handle this, Father?” Kid asked. “Ashura's no longer a threat.”

 

“. . . just because Ashura is gone doesn't mean the witches and pre-kishin affected by his Madness will go dormant again.” He tilted his head back. “Quite the contrary. Some may take longer to come into their power than others, but there may be more witches active now than there has been in over 800 years. Not to mention the numbers of kishin. It could take years for the world to get back into balance.”

 

Kid twitched. “The simple fact of the matter is,” he continued, “there aren't enough qualified students here to handle it all. I never thought I'd say it, but we don't have enough deathscythes to go around.”

 

“What about Marie, sir?” Sid asked. “She could be a lot of help with some of these issues.”

 

“She resigned, remember? Technically she's no longer a deathscythe. I can't order her to do anything. And she won't leave _his_ side.”

 

The zombie shuffled his feet slightly. “Speaking of Stein . . . .”

 

“We've discussed this already.”

 

“Can we really afford to keep him locked up in a cell, though? With all this going on? You have to admit, with him and Marie helping us-”

 

“ _Not happening._ ” Kid almost flinched. The sheer amount of anger in his father's voice when discussing Stein was near the same level as he had reserved for Ashura.

 

“You haven't even charged him with a crime yet.” Sid uncrossed his arms, scowling as much as his stiff face would let him. “The students are talking, and it's not good. A lot of them are very fond of the professor, and they don't understand what's going on. Leaving him locked up without explaining why is raising a lot of suspicion, especially when it's obvious that we need his help! Letting him out now and then to help the medical staff isn't enough when they know something's wrong – nobody's forgotten about DeathScythe and-”

 

Shinigami stood up straight. “Stop right there, Sid.” The mask tilted slightly. “Kid, I need you to leave.”

 

The adolescent Reaper blinked. It was one thing to walk away, to not have to deal with further knowledge of this sordid business – but hiding this secret from his father now just felt wrong, especially now. He drew in a deep breath and looked the taller being square in the eye. “. . . I already know the truth, Father.”

 

Silence fell over them. Shinigami turned to his son, sad golden eyes staring out from beneath the mask, appraising him before his shoulders drooped even further. “Oh, _Kid_. How did you find out?”

 

He squirmed under his parent's worried gaze. “I – after Spirit started staying at the Manor, Liz and Patty and I, we . . . you were carrying him and we heard . . . we saw the bite wound – Liz explained what it meant, and-”

 

“Have you told Maka?”

 

The boy shook his head. “No. I – I wouldn't even know where to start. Liz and I thought it best to keep it a secret, since you weren't saying anything about it.” He paused. “So it's true? Professor Stein really-?”

 

“Shinigami-sama.” Behind them, Sid shuffled his feet. “If those two could figure it out from just that much information, it won't take long for the students to piece together an idea of what they think happened. And it might not be the truth they decide on. Do we want to risk the spread of rumors, or do we want to settle the truth once and for all?”

 

“. . . you still don't believe Stein raped him, do you, Sid?”

 

Kid stared in disbelief at his teacher, who shook his head slowly. “No. I don't. We only have your word to go on! You've seen what we've collected – they might have fought, but I think the evidence makes it pretty clear DeathScythe was enjoying whatever sexual acts were going on. And for a man to let another man-”

 

Shinigami swung his hand through the air in a vicious cutting motion. “That's enough. That's _exactly_ why I didn't want this out in the first place!” His voice, already bitter, dropped an octave. “Fine. We'll get an official victim's statement from him. All according to law – will that satisfy you, Sid?”

 

The zombie bowed slightly. “I appreciate it.” He paused, his voice softening. “I don't mean to put you in between a rock and a hard place, sir, but . . . with all the secrets that've been held lately, we've lost a lot of trust from the students. We've got to do what we have to, to earn it back. And we can't prioritize personal feelings over the needs of the Academy.”

 

For a moment it seemed as though the Reaper was going to snap at him; instead he drew himself up tall and turned away. “. . . go bring Justin up here, and then start searching through the student rosters. I'll contact you once Spirit is prepared to give his statement.”

 

Kid didn't even wait for Sid to close the door behind him before turning to his father. Hesitantly, he reached out and grasped the ragged edge of his cloak. As a child he would have tugged on it, barely reaching his parent's 'knee'; now he simply held on to it, head nearly to the taller being's shoulder, and cleared his throat. “. . . you need to rest, Father,” he said quietly. “You're working yourself too hard.”

 

“I'll be fine, Kid.”

 

“I'm _serious_ , Father.”

 

Shinigami tipped the mask back with one giant finger, turning weary golden eyes to look over his son. “I know. I'll rest tonight after all this is taken care of. It's just – there's so much to take care of.” His face took on a distant cast; Kid knew exactly where his mind had gone, and it wasn't on the international matters they had spoken of earlier.

 

But while he still didn't understand his father's obsession, he could understand loyalty – and he would not begrudge that to the broken man who had nearly given his life to save his father's.

 

As if reading his mind, Shinigami laid a hand on Kid's shoulder. “I've been neglecting you, son. I'm sorry. I'll try to do better, I promise. It's just . . . .”

 

“It's OK, Father. I understand, really.” He glanced away, then back up at him. “Is there – is there anything I can do to help?”

 

“Kid.” The Reaper smiled almost sadly and pulled his young son in for an overbearing hug. Kid wrapped his arms back around his father, not caring at the moment if it made him look immature or not. He hadn't been hugged like this in ages, it seemed, and in the uncertainty and chaos it was welcoming and safe. His father was heavy, slumped forward, the weight of the world pressing him down like never before – Kid could feel it in the slow undulations of the other's soul wavelength. “Be there for your friends, son,” he said. “Be strong for them.

 

“Be strong for me.”

 

*~*

 

“Why don't we start at the beginning, DeathScythe?”

 

The setting sunlight filtered through the tiny cracks in the closed blinds over the window. Spirit sat below it, wedged into the corner of the cushioned chair with his one arm draped over his bandaged torso and his knees loosely drawn up below him in the chair. Slowly fading scars crisscrossed the bare soles of his feet. The only piece of clothing he could comfortably take on and off without assistance was a pair of old green jogging pants – threadbare at the edges, baggy, and not nearly enough protection against the intense stares of the other two people in the room.

 

Sid merely tapped his pen against his notepad, comfortably seated on a folding chair mere feet away. The zombie's gaze was, as always, blank, but his eyebrows were furrowed, the air of congeniality gone. Next to him, Shinigami stood against the wall, tall and inhuman except for the glimpse of golden eyes behind his mask. Spirit glanced resentfully at the latter, bruised eyes lifting a bit under his tangled red hair, before turning his tired gaze over to Sid's direction. “Well, when a mommy and a daddy love each other _very much_ -”

 

“Spirit.” Shinigami's shadow flickered.

 

Sid flipped through his notebook, ignoring the snide comment. “We already know you were at the bookstore over on 5th and Madison, then at the student apartments.” He scribbled something down. “What time did you get home that night?”

 

“. . . I left Maka's apartment at ten after nine. Usually takes fifteen minutes to walk to my place from there, so . . . nine-thirty or so.” Spirit picked at a loose bandage across his stomach. “The door was cracked open when I got there. 'S how I knew something was wrong.”

 

“You didn't know who it was? And you went in anyway?” Sid glanced up from writing, his heavy brow lowered further. “Why didn't you call the City police?”

 

The redhead shifted a bit in his seat. “I thought I could . . . handle it on my own.” His voice quavered; Shinigami twitched, enormous hands lacing themselves together.

 

“A-at any rate, it was just-” A deep breath, and the name was forced out through gritted teeth. “Just S- _Stein_. Said he wanted to – talk.”

 

“And you took him at his word? After he _broke into_ your house?”

 

The Reaper turned his narrowed glare at the zombie. “ _Sid-_ ”

 

Spirit shook his head. “It wasn't the first time he'd pulled that stunt. Used to do it all the time when we were kids. Have my bedroom locked and come home to find him snooping through my bookshelves.” The bandage on his abdomen began to fray from the constant picking. “He's always been weird like that. I didn't think anything of it.”

 

“I see.” Sid leaned back in his chair; the rusty metal hinges squeaked under his weight. “Did he say anything to make you think there was something wrong with him? Do anything suspicious?”

 

“At first, no. Until we started discussing the past.” The deathscythe took in as deep a breath as his broken ribs would allow him and sighed. “He told me h-he had wanted to catch me while I was asleep. Three guesses as to why.” One bony hand reached up and rubbed along a pale, thin scar along the side of his throat. “I knew he was under the influence of Madness as soon as he said that.”

 

Shinigami turned his gaze to the floor guiltily. The history the two had shared – the years where Spirit had been Stein's unwilling test subject, vivisected and used for God only knew what – would forever be a point of contention between the two. “And then?” Sid prodded.

 

“. . . he hit me. Soul Force. I- I didn't see it coming.” Spirit rubbed his hand over his still-healing ribs, wincing as he touched a particularly sore spot. “He was – it wasn't a normal fight. Not his style to take initiative like that.”

 

“Hmm. We have your injuries from that documented. Did you give him any?”

 

“A few.” The deathscythe shifted uncomfortably, looking away. “Get hit with Soul Force too many times,and it – it disrupts your soul wavelength. After a while, I couldn't-” He lifted his left shoulder in a shrug.

 

That certainly corroborated his story. Soul Force was a truly effective technique, but against Weapons it could be devastating; used too many times it could knock a person's soul wavelength out of balance and render them unable to transform themselves, or utilize any of their abilities. “How many times did he use that against you?” the Reaper asked.

 

Spirit closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. “. . . six? Seven? Maybe more.”

 

Even Sid looked startled at that. “I . . . see,” he said, noting it down. “What then?”

 

“H-he got me to the floor. Said I'd forgotten how to fear him.” His voice was beginning to shake. “I couldn't see it, but I could feel it. H-he had a scalpel. Just started – carving into me.” A faint, wobbly smile crossed his lips. “I wouldn't scream for him. Think that pissed him off.”

 

Shinigami's fingers tightened into his cloak; the tattered fabric tore under his grip. “I see,” Sid said, leaning forward onto his knees. “And then? When Stein was done with that?”

 

Spirit's eyes darted between the two of them; he nervously bit his lower lip. “I – he – he pushed me into the corner. Choked me with my tie – I think I blacked out for a second. When I could breathe, I . . . I screamed at him. Cursed him out.” He took a shuddering breath. “He started laughing. Used his Soul Sutures to sew my arms together behind my back-”

 

His voice cracked; curling tighter into the corner of the chair, the deathscythe rested his head on his knees to hide his eyes from the other men. “. . . and?” Sid pressed, relentless.

 

“Flipped me on my back.” Shinigami's hands clenched in rhythm, his golden eyes turning hard. “Said he could-” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Said he could see inside my mind.”

 

Sid looked up at the Reaper, who nodded. “And that's when you say he raped you, DeathScythe?”

 

There was no sound from him; he simply nodded, once, never lifting his head. Shinigami moved toward him, laying a gentle hand on his back and rubbing in soothing circles. Spirit flinched before settling down – he wasn't relaxing, but neither was he moving away. “I can't do this,” he whispered.

 

“You've come this far,” Shinigami said. “Don't let him win now. I'm right here. I won't leave.”

 

He took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, then nodded again. “What exactly did Stein do to you, DeathScythe?” Sid asked.

 

“. . . I fought.” His voice, already soft, took on a distant cast, as if pulling the words out of the distant past. “Kicked him in the face. Stomach. Didn't do any good. I couldn't stop him. He bit me. Told me I was being _spirited_ tonight.” A manic little laugh escaped him. Spirit raised his head, pale blue eyes hazed over with tears. His fingers clawed rhythmically at his pants leg. “When h- he pushed in and – it _hurt_ , oh God, it hurt _so much_.” The young man began to tremble; his voice grew thick, as if he were about to vomit. “I tried to stop him. I _tried_. He just wouldn't-”

 

“We found traces of your semen-” Sid began, and Spirit nearly screamed.

 

“ _No!_ I didn't – it _hurt_ and he kept _touching_ me and I _couldn't control_ – I didn't want it, I _never_ wanted it! It _fucking_ _ **hurt**_ , all of it! Just – on top of me and calling me _sempai_ and – and he _wouldn't stop_ -” Choking, he his his face again, but not before they could see the gleam of unshed tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

 

“Breathe, Spirit. It's over.” Shinigami ran his hand up and down the younger man's scarred back. His eyes went to Sid, piercing him with an angry glare that made the zombie wither in his seat.

 

“I apologize, DeathScythe.” Sid set the notepad down. It was difficult to see the man in such a state – most of his emotional breakouts were acts, put on for the benefit of his daughter or the people around him. Seeing him this truly upset was disturbing on multiple levels. He wasn't a weak man. A man with a weak constitution, a weak soul, would never have made it to the rank of deathscythe. But for someone so strong to be laid down this low . . . it made Sid reconsider a few things he didn't want to think about. “I have to take down all the details. Just doing my job.”

 

Spirit shivered. “I – he wanted to – he said he needed to see the fear and-” One huge gloved hand brushed cherry-red hair back; Shinigami knelt down beside his Weapon partner and let the man lean up against his shoulder. “He threatened Maka if I didn't do what he wanted. I couldn't let him hurt my little girl, I _couldn't_ -” He choked back a sob, rubbing the fast-falling tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

 

“You performed fellatio on him.”

 

The man's face crumpled, his cheeks burning in shame as he nodded once. “Did you really think he would have attacked Maka?” the zombie asked, his tone a bit incredulous. “As far away as she was, and in the state he had to have been in after-”

 

“Do you think I was going to take that chance?!” Spirit violently shook his head. “When he . . . finished . . . I started _choking_ and – ” Curling up, he turned his face away from them, trying to compose himself. “He hit me with Soul Force again. I blacked out.”

 

“I see.” Sid glanced at Shinigami, who nodded. “That doesn't explain the cigarette burns on his body, though, or-”

 

“That wasn't the only time that night Stein attacked him.” Shinigami turned his head to Spirit, who trembled violently under their collective gaze. “Was it?”

 

The deathscythe abruptly pushed himself up out of the chair, taking several shaky steps across the small room to the far wall. “No more,” he stammered, his thin shoulders trembling; the vicious scars across his back stood out in plain relief, the fear inside him forever carved into alabaster skin. “I can't _do_ this, Shinigami-sama, I _can't-_ ”

 

“You can.” The Reaper tilted his mask back to expose his face, tired golden eyes never wavering even when Spirit turned to face him, faded blue eyes despairing and terrified. He rose and crossed the room to kneel at his Weapon partner's side. “I know it's hard. Just a little further. What do you remember?”

 

Spirit let out a long, shaky sigh. When offered one oversized gloved hand he took it, his smaller hand engulfed in that comforting warmth. “I – I remember the lighter. He kept . . . lighting up cigarettes, letting them burn. Putting them out. On me.” The quaver in his voice had returned. “I told myself I wouldn't scream. I lied.”

 

Shinigami flinched, briefly closing his eyes. Spirit's voice kept growing fainter, more distant; his eyes were beginning to glaze over into a thousand-yard stare. “He wanted me to . . . .” He licked his lips and shuddered. “He pinned my arms down with his knees. Put it – I started choking. He _laughed_ , he said he wanted to _watch-_ ”

 

“I think we get the picture,” the elder being said, his voice infinitely gentle - but the irises of his eyes had turned a furious bloody red. “How many times did he make you do that, Spirit?”

 

“. . . it wasn't enough for him.” Spirit kept going as if he hadn't heard the question. The words tumbled from his lips faster and faster, poison escaping the wound. “He said I needed a last lesson on fear before he left. He lit up another cigarette and got on top of me and-” A sob choked him; he ripped his hand away and covered his face as he began to cry. “And _I stopped fighting back._ ”

 

Shinigami was up before the harsh sobs could begin, hesitantly placing an arm around his friend's shoulders and pulling him in. The young man was incoherent now, doubled over and trying to muffle his hysteric weeping with his hand. “I stopped – I didn't – _why couldn't I-_ ”

 

With no answers to give, all Shinigami could do was hold him – hold him and fight back the tears of his own.

 

*~*

 

Sid shook his head and pocketed his notebook as the Reaper desperately tried to console his Weapon partner. There was nothing more he could get from the man, not in the state he was in. What he'd seen – what he'd heard – it flew against everything he'd been taught, everything he thought he knew. Surreptitiously clicking off the audio recorder he'd tucked away in his pocket, he exited the room as quietly as he could.

 

He didn't envy Shinigami the job of piecing together _that_ mess.

 

The zombie took a step forward and bumped into something; it fell to the ground with a cry and he glanced down, unblinking. “. . . Oh, hell.”

 

Below him, Maka Albarn sat on the floor, her face flushed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “How much of that did you hear?” he asked, rather more roughly than he meant to.

 

Her choked cry was all the answer Sid needed.


	14. Rain Wash Away

*~*

 

“Maka, _wait!_ ”

 

Soul stopped for a second, panting, then sprinted forward again, trying to keep up with his Meister. Behind him, Death the Kid kept pace, golden eyes narrowed. She had told her partner not to wait for her when she had gone to visit her father, but he hadn't felt right about leaving her behind – and his gut instinct had proven to be true. When Kid had discovered where she had gone, he had strangely insisted on waiting with him for her. His only comment had been that 'nothing good would come of this.'

 

That had been an understatement.

 

Maka stumbled and clutched the wall to steady herself; Soul and Kid jogged up to her side, the former putting a hand on her shoulder. She was sobbing for breath, her face red and streaked with tears. As soon as Soul touched her she whirled on him.

 

“Hey,” he began. “Maka, what's wrong? Did you g-”

 

A sob escaped her; she buried her head in his chest , crying. “... Maka?” Soul asked, hands in the air around her uncertainly before placing one carefully on her back. Behind them, Kid slipped his hands into his pockets, glancing around the empty hallway before refocusing on the pair. “What happened?”

 

“. . . _Papa_ ,” she strangled out in a miserable cry.

 

“You overheard the deposition, didn't you.”

 

Soul looked up at Kid, who was staring at Maka with a carefully controlled expression. “Deposition? What are you talking about?” he asked.

 

“. . . Father and Sid went up there to take an official statement from DeathScythe about the events that transpired the night he was . . . _attacked_ . . . by Professor Stein.” Kid's eyes never wavered from Maka, who curled up a bit tighter at his words. “It turns out that much more happened that evening than what we were initially told.”

 

“I just w-wanted Professor Stein back! I kept asking Papa w-why nobody wanted the professor back even when I knew it was hurting him! I asked him why he couldn't _forgive_ -”

 

Kid let out a long breath, eyes softening in pity. “Maka, you had no way of knowing the truth.”

 

The young girl let out an audible sniffle, rubbing her hand over her eyes. “Professor Stein was going to come after me,” she whispered. “Papa went through all that to protect me and I – _I just wanted the professor back._ ”

 

“Maka-” She shoved Soul away before he could comfort her, shaking her head violently, then turned and fled. This time, Kid put a restraining hand on the Weapon's shoulder before he could follow her. “What the hell, Kid? We can't just leave her like this!”

 

“I don't think we can help her right now.” Frustration warred with hopelessness on the young Reaper's face. “She needs to work this out for herself. Besides, she's probably gone to find her mother – I think that's for the best.”

 

The white-haired scythe scowled. Red eyes narrowed at him, a lingering suspicion. “Just what the hell happened, anyway? Stein kept saying some pretty fucked-up things when we were fighting him in Medusa's hideout – he kinda _implied_ a few things – you don't think he tried to . . . you know?” He made a vulgar gesture with his hands.

 

Kid sighed. “He didn't try to.” He looked back at him. “He succeeded.”

 

Soul cringed, looking as sick as Kid felt. “Kid, that's – that's not supposed to happen to guys.”

 

“Really?” Golden eyes narrowed in sudden anger. “Tell that to DeathScythe. I'm sure he'd take it quite well.”

 

He threw his hands to his sides as Kid stormed off. “I didn't mean-” Soul rubbed the back of his head and heaved a sigh. “Dammit.” The halls, empty and cold, echoed his curse; shaking his head, he turned and went to go find his Meister.

 

*~*

 

“. . . I'm not pressing charges.”

 

Shinigami's lower extremities had long gone numb, sprawled as he was on the floor of the makeshift recovery room; the cold tile had drained what little warmth could be found in his legs. Spirit was curled up in a loose fetal ball against him, propped up against his side with his one remaining arm crossed over his knees and his chin resting atop his arm. The Reaper had draped his massive cloak over both of them to ward off the chill. The deathscythe looked almost childish tucked underneath it, tear tracks drying on his cheeks, bare feet crossed below him.

 

How many hours had they been sitting there now? The sun was long set, a lamp across the room providing a dim light across the little room. Forcing the deathscythe to relive his violation had been a difficult decision, made even more so when the man had dissolved into a mass of self-loathing and anguish, of fury and tears. Shinigami had sat it out with him, letting him rage and cry and berate himself until he had practically collapsed from the effort. Now there was nothing left in Spirit but exhaustion, a tired sort of resignation.

 

“Spirit?” Shinigami ventured, unsure if he'd heard the other correctly. “What do you mean? He could have killed you. We've already charged him with aggravated assault-”

 

“-and that's fine,” he said. The emptiness, the hollow tone that bespoke how utterly weary he was now – hearing it hurt. The deathscythe tilted his head to look over at his Meister, his eyes shaded and unreadable in the faint light. “The other . . . just let it go, Shinigami-sama.”

 

His golden eyes widened in shock. “Spirit, _Stein-_ ”

 

“St-” He swallowed hard. “S-Stein raped me.”

 

Shinigami's breath caught in his chest. Somehow part of him had hoped that actually naming the trauma would somehow make things better – that saying it would help the younger man gain strength. There was no strength or power in the word, and he knew he'd been a fool to think there could ever be. Only acceptance, the defeat of someone no longer trying to run from the truth, and it was the most hollow of victories.

 

The dim light was enough to reflect the glimmer of fresh tears sliding down Spirit's cheeks. His quiet voice did not waver, and that somehow made it even worse. “He raped me and I was too weak to stop him.”

 

The Reaper looked away, concern creasing his brow. “Spirit . . . I know it's hard.”

 

“No. You don't.” He slouched down, his hand clutching the edge of the cloak around his scarred shoulders and pulling it tight. “If charges are filed, there will be a trial. That means it'll go public. The news outlets will pick it up, and it'll be international news within days. I'd have to _testify-_ ” A shudder ran down his spine; Shinigami shifted closer to him, even though he could offer little warmth. “I can't do it. I _can't_ relive it all again – tell a bunch of strangers everything he did – you really think they'd _believe_ me?” He barked a laugh, the sound completely devoid of humor. “You're the only one who's believed me, or hasn't blamed me for it. The rest of the world isn't as forgiving. No matter what the verdict was, public opinion would find me guilty.” Long red hair shadowed his eyes. “And they'd be right.”

 

As much as he didn't want to admit it, DeathScythe had a point – and it was a bitter, bitter pill to swallow. “Not everyone blames you-”

 

Spirit rolled right over his weak objection, his voice becoming more and more hollow. “I'm your head deathscythe. For me to be this _weak_ . . . the Academy is already under a lot of scrutiny from the international community. This would make things a lot worse. My ability to fulfill my duties would come into question if they haven't already – don't shake your head, you _know_ I'm right. I've failed you, the Academy, my daughter . . . I failed _myself,_ just _look_ at me! They have every right to question my abilities!” The bandages that wrapped the stump where his left arm had been were now splotched with fresh blood; his fingers dug into the still-healing flesh, drawing the emotional pain out by physically inflicting it. Faded blue eyes glared back out over the room. “My life would be _hell_ if they knew. _Maka's_ life would be hell – I can't do that to my daughter. It's bad enough she's going to find out about this, but to be put in the public spotlight because _I_ fucked up?”

 

Shinigami turned to face him. Spirit's thin body trembled next to him; beneath the crumbling facade he could see his battered soul splintering further along the cracks, tearing at himself from guilt and self-hatred. Reaching over, he pulled the younger man's hand away from the shoulder wound before he could do himself further harm. His other hand slipped under the cloak and laid gently on the nape of his companion's neck, kneading at the tense muscles there. “Spirit, you _have_ to stop blaming yourself,” he said gently. “None of this – Medusa, Ashura, Stein – none of it is your fault. You have to believe me.”

 

“. . . I can't.” His voice cracked. Beads of water rolled in a flood down his hollow cheeks, trickling along the curve of his chin to drip onto the cold tile floor. “My _daughter_ had to finish the job with Ashura because _I_ couldn't do it! I slipped up with that witch and – if I hadn't screwed that up, the Madness wouldn't have . . . S-St- _Stein_ wouldn't have – I _begged_ him, Shinigami! I _gave up!_ I was _too weak_ to stop him andit's _my fault_ it ever _happened-_ ”

 

“Stop right there.” He brushed the Weapon's long red hair back from his face as he tilted his head up, running through the tangles and trailing down to the back of his neck. “Yes. It happened. But it wasn't your fault, and there was nothing you could have done to stop it.” The Reaper's golden gaze softened; long fingers reached up and brushed the tears from Spirit's cheek. “Don't let the darkness drag you down. Not now, not after all we've been through.”

 

“What am I supposed to _do?_ ” Spirit begged, desperation lacing his voice. “I can't even stand to look at myself anymore! Every time I close my eyes – every time I see something out of the corner of my eye – every shadow or noise is _him_ , it's like he's _there_ again and I can hear him – I can _feel_ him-” His fist thumped limply against the floor. “I am so tired of being weak.”

 

“You are _not_ weak, Spirit Albarn.” Shinigami tilted Spirit's chin up enough so they could see eye-to-eye. An odd, tight little smile spread on the Reaper's face; warm golden eyes regarded his partner fondly. He stroked his hand through long red hair, letting strands fall and gathering them up again in a soothing motion before resting his large palm against the other man's high cheekbone. “Don't even think it. You have been there for me for so many years now, and you have _no idea_ how much I have relied on your strength to get me through it all. Raising Kid. Dealing with politics. Fighting witches, training our students. _Ashura-_ ” and there was a hitch in his voice on saying the name.

 

The deathscythe bit his lower lip and tentatively reached out, withdrawing his hand once before finally letting it settle on his Meister's wrist. The warmth of his touch was like fire. “Shinigami-sama . . . ?”

 

Shinigami slipped his hand into Spirit's, interweaving their fingers; he brought the younger man's hand up to his face and nuzzled it briefly. “You have been my friend, my confidante, even when you have suffered your own demons, and I . . . . Oh, _Spirit_ ,” he breathed, cool lips tracing the syllables against the other's feverish skin. “You don't . . . you don't know just how strong you really are.”

 

For a long moment Spirit sat there in silence, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest and the steady flow of tears.

 

Then slowly, hesitantly, his fingers closed around the Reaper's hand and squeezed.

 

*~*

 

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Let's make this brief, shall we?”

 

The courtyard in front of the Academy was full to the brim with reporters from every nation, all of them jockeying to get a better position near the front podium. The early morning sun cast long shadows from still-broken buildings, homes and towering pieces of construction equipment scattered throughout the city. Azusa stood behind the microphone stand with Nygus at her side; black-suited guards, marked by their wraparound shades, kept the rabble from pushing around too much or trying to go further than the courtyard. Above them, Academy students congregated, eager to hear the first official press conference since the defeat of Ashura.

 

This would be so much easier if the Reaper's words weren't still echoing in her mind.

 

_There's something I haven't told you . . . the truth of what happened between Spirit and Stein . . . ._

 

“My name is Yumi Azusa, and I am the deathscythe in charge of East Asia and Oceania. I am also temporarily the head deathscythe for the DWMA.” She adjusted her glasses, watching the reporters scribble their notes. A few cameras flashed; video cameras adjusted their angles. “We at the Academy wish to thank you for your patience in waiting as we reconstruct our city, and we thank our allies with NATO and the UN for their continued assistance. Now, I believe some of you have questions. Let's get started. You, in the back?”

 

“Lee Johnson, _New York Times_. Miss Azusa, some say that the Academy should have been more proactive in trying to stop the kishin Ashura-”

 

And, as Shinigami had predicted, the questions weren't exactly friendly. The DWMA hadn't tried hard enough to stop Ashura. (“We expended every available resource towards stopping Ashura, and we did so as safely and expediently as possible. Our goal of promoting the safety and wellbeing of the souls of humanity was at the forefront of that mission, as it is for every mission.”) Would they be compensating those who lost homes and loved ones in the last battle to defeat Ashura. (“Shinigami-sama has set aside funds to assist any who were displaced; there has always been a compensation fund at the DWMA for the families of those Academy members who sacrifice their lives in order to maintain peace.”) What were they going to do about the more frequent appearances of kishin and witches. (“The Academy is well aware of the increase in kishin, and is deploying extra staff worldwide to combat this before it becomes a serious threat.”)

 

One younger man waved a pad of paper in the air. “You said you were the temporary head deathscythe, miss Azusa – can you give us an update on the health of Shinigami and his primary DeathScythe? There are rumors-”

 

Azusa shifted her gaze, her insides going cold. “That question would be best directed at my coworker here. I'll let her answer it.”

 

The demon knife's gaze was entirely unamused as she stepped forward to the mike. “I'm Mira Nygus, head nurse here at the Academy.” She slid a notebook out of her pocket – there were a few notes written down in Shinigami's meticulous handwriting. “I'm pleased to report that Shinigami-sama is completely healed after his encounter with the kishin Ashura, as are the students who defeated him. Of the wounded, the majority are either healed or expected to make a full recovery.”

 

“What about DeathScythe? Can you comment on the rumors that he's been permanently disabled as a result of the fight?”

 

“. . . DeathScythe Spirit Albarn placed himself directly in the line of fire to protect his Meister and innocent bystanders from being killed by the kishin.” Nygus took a deep breath, gripping her notes. “He was critically injured as a result, including the loss of one arm. He is currently in stable condition. It would be premature for us to make a prediction at this time as to whether or not his injuries will make an impact on his abilities as a deathscythe.”

 

The crowds stirred uneasily; Nygus and Azusa stood calmly, waiting for the buzz to die down. Another reporter, this one with a BBC cameraman behind her, popped her head up when they signaled they would take questions again. “What of the injuries he sustained from the attack by his former Meister Franken Stein?”

 

The desert sun suddenly didn't feel quite as hot. “DeathScythe is in stable condition,” Nygus repeated. She glanced over at Azusa, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Shinigami had been extremely explicit about what details could be leaked to the press and what couldn't, and this was coming quite close to the edge. “That includes any injuries he sustained as a result of that attack.”

 

“Miss Azusa, is the Academy going to charge the professor with a crime?”

 

An almost unearthly silence fell as the students above them refocused on the tableau below. The reporters waited eagerly; the attack on Spirit and Stein's subsequent disappearance had been the talk of tabloid news outlets for weeks. Azusa shut her eyes for a moment and adjusted her glasses.

 

_They can't know the whole truth,_ Shinigami's voice echoed in her mind. _For Spirit's sake, they can't know._

 

She crossed her arms across her chest briefly, then lowered them to her side before clasping them behind her back. “Professor Stein is being held in Academy custody after pleading guilty to multiple counts of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.” The muscles in her jaw rippled as she bit back what she wanted to scream – that Stein was guilty, guilty, _guilty_. “The final results of the investigation are in and . . . and there will be no further charges pressed against him.”

 

Sighs of relief and rushed whispers ran amongst the students; the journalists began snapping photos and waving their hands. Raking her gaze over the crowd, Azusa tilted her head at the guards, who stepped forward in unison. “Those are all the questions we will be taking for today. I thank you all for attending. This press conference is over.” Immediately reporters began shouting further questions; she turned smartly on her heel and stepped away, Nygus keeping step beside her, as the guards converged to escort the journalists off the campus. The students began to drift away in small groups, their hushed conversations carrying over the breeze.

 

“You almost slipped there, Azusa.”

 

The deathscythe bit her lower lip. “I don't like lies, Nygus.”

 

“Neither do I.” She put a hand on the other woman's shoulder. “But remember who we're protecting. Is it better to lie now and let it go, or to let the truth out and ruin him for something he couldn't help?”

 

For a moment – a brief moment – those cold blue eyes seemed to shine with emotion, before she turned and walked away.

 

*~*

 

“. . . I can't say I'm that surprised, Maka. Stein was always . . . fixated on your father.”

 

Kami rubbed the bruise on her cheek as she spoke, her other hand kept up in a fist in her lap. Maka sat across from her, red-rimmed eyes flicking up in surprise at the comment. She'd spilled it all when she'd found her mother, everything she'd heard, every horrible detail, until she had sobbed so much she was choking. Kami had listened, stroked her hair, never interrupting once until it was all out.

 

The elder Albarn gestured to the glass of water by Maka's elbow; she dutifully took a drink. “What do you mean, Mama?” she asked. “They were partners before-”

 

“Stein has always been a monster, Maka.” Kami sat back with her arms crossed over her chest. “He never saw your father as anything but an experimental subject. A lab rat. He's insane, and I don't know why Shinigami would have ever trusted him to teach any student after what he did-”

 

“But he cared about us!”The exclamation was out before she could stop herself. “I – I mean, Professor Stein, he . . . he taught us so much, he tried to protect us . . . he and Papa got along so well, so why . . . .”

 

“Stein used to drug your father and cut him open for fun!”

 

“Papa forgave him for that . . . .”

 

“That's because Spirit's always been a softhearted fool!”

 

Kami clapped a hand over her mouth; Maka stared at her wide-eyed. “Mama,” she whispered.

 

There was a moment's pause before Kami spoke again. “I can't tell you what to think, Maka,” she sighed. “Maybe Stein did change. I don't believe it, but what do I know? I haven't – I haven't been here. I can't tell you why. It would be nice if I had answers, but . . . sometimes there just aren't any.” Getting to her feet, she stepped over and put her arms around her daughter; Maka leaned into the hug, sniffling back tears.

 

“So . . . what happens now?”

 

“I don't know, Maka. I really don't know.”

 

*~*

 

“Stein?”

 

Marie's gentle voice echoed through the hall before the cell door creaked open just enough to let her slip through. “Stein? Are you awake?”

 

The Meister lay still on the uncomfortable cot, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he said, his hoarse voice a monotone. Normally he never moved, not even for Marie, but the erratic pulses of her soul wavelength were a warning her could not ignore – even if he no longer cared about himself, he still cared about her. Glancing her way, Stein pushed himself up to a sitting position on the low cot. His head drooped from his shoulders; his arms rested loosely on his knees, hands limp, fingernails chewed down to the quick.

 

Damn, but he wanted a cigarette.

 

“Stein?” Marie knelt in front of him. For a split-second he saw another figure kneeling there, one with red hair and tearful red eyes, a bruised throat, and he flinched back away from her with a sudden guttural moan. “Stein?”

 

“Sempai,” he whispered, hands covering his eyes like a child would do. “ _I'm so_ _ **sorry-**_ ”

 

Marie sighed and rose to sit beside him on the little cot. “Stein,” she said gently. “Stein, look at me.”

 

“. . . I don't want to.”

 

Still, she laid her hands over his and gently pried his hands away until his grey-green eyes were staring to her side, not quite looking up at her. “I spoke with Shinigami-sama just a few minutes ago. They've finished the investigation.”

 

His hand reached for the screw; blood crusted his hair where he had cranked it too much. He had spoken for years on the whole incident, it seemed. Sid; Nygus; Marie and Joe; an official statement to the Reaper's elite task force; even a miserable four hours with one of his old professors, a meister and psychologist who had taken her time in picking his psyche apart. Spoken until he felt empty inside. He was hollow, all his words taken away, his mind a wordless ocean of bitter loathing and regret. “And?” He cranked the screw back a notch. “I know Death City invokes the death penalty for rape.”

 

Marie's lips pursed for a second. “They're indicting you on five counts of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.” She placed a hand over his – so small, yet so soothing. “They aren't charging you with rape. Not officially.”

 

“So it's a cover-up to protect Spirit? Smart.” Crank. Crank. _Crank._ “So what will they do with me, then? An 'accident'? Life in prison?”

 

“. . . Shinigami-sama is convening a meeting tomorrow night to decide.” Marie's grip on his hand tightened. He stared down at her, worry worming its way into his bitter heart. “It'll be just four of us. You, me, him . . . .” She took a deep breath. “And Spirit.”

 

Stein's heart nearly stopped.

 

“ _Sempai?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHA I bet you all thought I was dead in a ditch somewhere.
> 
> Well, no, I wasn't dead or lazy or anything, I just... wandered into other OTPs and lost my mojo. But now that things have changed in my personal life, I'm regaining it! And this will get finished! And then I will do other fic!
> 
> Hopefully.
> 
> I can occasionally be found in such places at thehandsofthereaper.tumblr.com or tigerstripedmoon.tumblr.com if you're lucky. Feel free to ask me things!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Meister's Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4267788) by [SilverPointDespair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverPointDespair/pseuds/SilverPointDespair)
  * [When In a Mirrored Room](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4973659) by [DollyPop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DollyPop/pseuds/DollyPop)




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